


hellflower

by sylaise_lionheart



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Elements from Final Fantasy XIII, Etro!Prompto, M/M, Mild Language, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prince Prompto Argentum, this is going to be a wild ride lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28518816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylaise_lionheart/pseuds/sylaise_lionheart
Summary: “Pardon me, Your Majesty, but why don’t you ask Queen Lunafreya for her hand in marriage? Surely a marriage between the King of Light and the Oracle would bring prosperity to Eos.”“I don’t quite understand why you won’t consider a second marriage an option, Your Grace. After all, your marriage with the Niflheim Prince— may Etro bless his soul— was hardly in your favor.”Noctis brought a hand up to his temple and rubbed away his throbbing headache before his frustration could create more wrinkles. He did not want any more reminder of his age— thank you very much. “I swear, if they ask me about my status one more time, I’m going to tell everyone that my ‘dead husband’ is goddamn Etro.”
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia & Prompto Argentum & Noctis Lucis Caelum & Ignis Scientia, Prompto Argentum & Ardyn Izunia, Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 19
Kudos: 102





	1. 'Til I Remember Lending Softer Ears to My Lungs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so initially, I'm supposed to start this fic heavy. That chapter is actually complete and just need a little bit of proofreading. But then, some nights ago, I woke up at God-only-knows-what-time-that-was and thought: _wait, if Prompto's Etro, then does that mean Noct can offer Kenny Crow's Special Chili Fries?_ And well, here it is. Also I suck at summaries so have some shitpost content for a piss poor summary haHA
> 
> The title for this chapter is from The Paper Kites' _The Mortal Boy King_

Years spent in rebuilding Insomnia were tedious at best: not everyone believed that all the daemons had been extinguished when the sun rose after a decade of darkness. And when twilight returned after the first daylight passed, some thought that the return of dawn was but a fleeting moment. Not even the return of the One True King could shake off the hardships his people underwent in his absence.

Revitalizing Insomnia and the rest of the civilizations sounded like a far-fetched goal given the remaining number of survivors. Reassuring people that the sun had return completely was another matter entirely. But now, years after a world of ruin, after an asinine fiasco that resulted to a massive headache and confused screaming, they had achieved _most_ of their revitalization projects.

Now at the heart of Insomnia, where the Citadel stood tall, a celebration of the Sun’s return was held, hosted by no other than the King and his retinue themselves.

From the balcony, Noctis observed the bustling city celebrating the return of the sun. Even from where he stood, he saw the occasional floats and banners that peeked through the high buildings. It’s no doubt that those decorations would be used for a parade— one that he had to attend, which meant standing on top of a float and maintaining an amicable smile for Astrals-know-how-long. Just thinking about it made him feel like locking himself in the bedroom and sleep the rest of the day.

If only he had the privilege to do that anymore. A king shouldered daunting responsibilities that weren’t easy to dismiss, especially when it concerned the well-being of the people.

“Ah, escaping from your duties, I take it?” Noctis craned his neck to the side, and sure enough, Ignis stood there with his hands clasped behind his back-- prim and proper as always. Noctis wasn’t sure if he ever saw his advisor take a break for the past few months. Then again, the days all seemed to be a blur with all the political meetings and civil plans. 

“Ignis,” Noctis greeted nonchalantly. “Let me guess: I have about five minutes to put on the suit before I make my appearance.”

“It seems my lectures have finally dawned to you at last,” huffed the advisor. “And it only took a couple of years after your coronation to assume responsibility outside of public view.”

“What can I say?” huffed Noctis. “I’m a pretty quick learner, don’t you think?”

“Indeed,” Ignis said despite knowing better. “I’m sure Gladio would agree as well.”

A smirk appeared on Noctis’ features. “Gladio would rather kick my ass than so much compliment me.”

“That in itself is a normal behavior for a King’s Shield.” The advisor took one step and another until he stood beside the king. Noctis looked back at the view the Citadel’s balcony has to offer and chuckled. “Consider it a substitute for your training, since you’ve been rather busy with politics than refining your abilities, especially with the Lucian Kings’ magic out of the picture.”

The mention of his former powers didn’t faze him after for so long. When the Astrals bar one cut their ties with the mortal realm and slept to recover their powers, the Crystal and all sorts of magic disappeared. It was just them now in their lonesome— no warping, no phasing, no prophecies, no Old Wall, and the likes. The Ring of Lucii was gone and by, extent, the ancient Lucian kings and the Kings of Yore.

It had taken awhile for Noctis to grow accustomed from the loss of power. With no Crystal draining his energy, Noctis felt freer and more relaxed. He no longer had to sleep for an extensive period, and if he did, it was solely out of habit. The Crystal was a life-long burden that’s been lifted off his shoulders. And frankly speaking, Noctis was glad that it no longer had the power to dictate his life. This was the dream his fifteen-year-old self, no matter how cringy he acted back then, longed for— freedom.

Well, he was still royalty. But at least he wouldn’t have to worry about producing heirs anytime soon. If he was originally meant to be the last of the Lucis Caelum, then so be it. Besides, once his reign ends, democracy would dethrone monarchy. It was better this way; after all, the people had managed to survive on their own during a decade of darkness. Things would work out in the future, assuming he established the rudiments for this change of system properly.

Ah, politics never stopped making him want to tear his greying hair out. Noctis really should’ve retired while he had the chance. He heard from Talcott that Cape Caem undergone some slight renovations. It could’ve been upgraded to a fishing resort for all Noctis could care.

“I believe my words are falling on deaf ears,” Ignis announced with a chuckle, successfully pulling Noctis out of his impromptu trance.

With a shake of his head, Noctis said, “Sorry, you were saying?”

“We ought to make haste for the parade, Noct.” Right, he still had a speech to give and hands to shake. “You have yet to change your attire, which would already consume too much of our remaining time.”

“Hey, I can be quick!” Noctis interjected while he pushed himself away from the railings and turned to face Ignis, who was already making his way inside. The King followed Ignis, continuing, “Four years and you still doubt how fast I can be presentable?”

“I may be blind, Noctis, but I can still tell if you wore a mismatching pair of socks,” was Ignis’ reply. 

It wasn’t a surprising admission, really. Ignis’ senses were sharper than Noctis initially anticipated. “And you can tell…how?”

“Call it intuition.” Noctis rolled his eyes—completely un-befitting for a king, but he could care less of his regal appearance when he wasn’t being scrutinized head-to-toe. “Regardless, I believe Lady Lunafreya would appreciate timeliness on your end, especially given the importance of today’s event.”

Luna’s presence during the celebration of the sun’s return became a staple. It wasn’t obligatory, but Luna considered it an opportunity to reunite with Noctis. And well, he couldn’t exactly fault that logic. “Will I have the time to talk to her during all of this?”

“Yes, albeit for a short moment in-between schedule. After all the festivities, then you are free to converse with her as long as you want,” answered Ignis. “The same can be said for Prompto as well.”

They stopped in front of Noctis’ door. Talk about timing, huh? “Are my offerings prepared?”

“They have been arranged, yes. As for the chili fries,” Ignis paused, his tone changing from informative to disapproval. “Please do offer it privately.”

“I know, I know.” Noctis dismissed, “Can’t let people freak out over the King of Lucis offering Kenny Crow’s chili fries to an Astral.”

“An Astral who is very much the Goddess—pardon me, a God of Death, might I add. While we are very much familiar with Etro, the people are not; hence I advise you to exercise utmost caution,” reprimanded Ignis. Had Noctis been an ordinary citizen with no ties with Etro, he would understand where Ignis was coming from. He would’ve spent his life worrying whether a deity of death would strike them down for offering something as trivial as junk food or the latest issue of _Justice Monsters_.

Resisting the urge to sigh in front of his advisor, Noctis nodded, “I will. I promise I’ll give the chili fries behind closed doors. Happy?”

“Quite.” With his approval made known, Ignis quickly ushered Noctis to his room. Right, a stuffy suit that took at least three appointments awaited Noctis. “Now, in you go. We must not dally any longer than necessary.”

“Okay, Mom.” Noctis drawled jokingly, obeying Ignis’ request nonetheless.

As the King shut the door behind him, Noctis pretended he didn’t hear Ignis mutter: “Some things never change.”

────────────────────────────────────

There’s something strangely ominous about the Temple of Etro. Or maybe that’s just the general mood when it comes to the abode of Death-Incarnate. Noctis couldn’t exactly pinpoint whether it’s the monochromatic color scheme, the grim murals, or the smell of burning incenses that emphasized this eerie ambiance. Thankfully, the lighting provided by the chandeliers and the varieties of candles lined up at the sides were fine, a detail that inferred that this sort of atmosphere wasn’t intentionally made.

Can’t exactly make a deity’s temple a copy of a B-rated horror movie now, can they?

A gargantuan marble statue of Etro loomed over all things that stood before it. It depicted Etro as a lady intricately wrapped in a soft cloak-- the “closest” form of the goddess that resembled mankind the most, for her other appearances were other-worldly if the murals were to be believed. Noctis however knew better, just as his retinue, Luna, and those who were closely acquainted with him, did.

“I see the Temple is well-maintained as ever,” noted Luna, who—as graceful as ever despite the years-- stood beside Noctis.

Noctis ignored the curious looks of those who were in attendance. Well, not exactly all of them. Just the ones who decided to pay the Temple a visit just because a certain monarch had long made it a habit to visit the place when the festivities were nearing its end. “It pays visiting this place once a week.”

“This is the most devout His Majesty here can get,” chimed Gladio. As Luna chuckled and hid her smile behind her gloved hand, Noctis resisted the urge to roll his eyes and settled for a subtle jab on Gladio’s side instead. The Shield raised an amused brow, “What? Can’t handle facts now?”

“Quit it.” Nothing in Noctis’ tone stated that it was a sincere command. “I’m just paying my respects. That’s all.”

“Please. One moment you’re paying respects and then the next thing you know it: you’re trying to woo a statue,” Gladio snickered before looking down at the bouquet Noctis was holding in his arms. “Remember that time you accidentally switched your offerings?”

“Of course you have to bring _that_ up,” sighed Noctis, his hold on the bouquet growing tighter as he resisted the urge to inspect the offering just to make sure he didn’t mix it up with the one that’s supposed to be given privately along with the chili fries. The last thing he wanted to do in a public temple was to confound the masses as to why the King of Lucis was offering a bouquet that signified romance of all things. But unfortunately for him, nervousness outmatched his pride. Noctis peeked at the offering at hand and enumerated them quietly.

White chrysanthemum, red spider lily, peony, yellow daffodil— symbols of respect and reverence for a lonely deity who upheld the balance between life and death. It’s a perfectly unassuming and simple offering coming from royalty.

“Ah, if only Ignis were here to witness this,” Luna chuckled. “Perhaps it is indeed for the best that he would join us at a later time.”

Ignis’ temporary absence was merely due to last-minute organizations, socializations, and what-not. While Noctis had offered to lend a hand in such matters in his own way (re: subtly mentioning it to not look suspicious about a change of behavior), Ignis kindly rejected Noctis’ assistance and instead urged the King to head to the Temple without him. If the advisor stated that the problems were manageable, then Noctis had no need to fret. Ignis’ charm and diligence still worked like magic despite all these years.

One of the priests Noctis had frequently encountered walked towards the party and greeted with a formal tone and a bow: “Their Majesties, it’s an honor to have you grace us with your presences once more.”

“It’s a pleasure to stand witness of your unwavering loyalty for the goddess after all these years, Reverend Vivian,” Luna returned with a smile.

“I believe I pale in comparison to Her Majesty during her mission as an Oracle, but I appreciate your kindness nonetheless,” The Mother reciprocated the smile and gestured to the aisle behind them. “Well then, shall we?”

“Please,” insisted Noctis with an affirmative nod, “Lead the way.”

Noctis’ movements became clockwork a few years ago: as he, Luna, and Gladio followed after the priestess, Noctis handed the bouquet to a sister and paid little attention on how his offering would be placed with the others. Instead, he kept his gaze solely on the path ahead and accepted three incense sticks offered by another sister once they’ve reached the altar.

He stood in front of the urn and bowed his head, Luna and Gladio following his motions. He listened to the Reverend’s prayers in silence, her gentle albeit powerful voice filling in the quietness that had claimed the room when she spoke the first sentences. Even those who were present just to get a glimpse of the Lucian royalty and the visiting Queen of Tenebrae knew better than to disrupt the rite in place.

And when the Reverend ended the passage and paused to offer a moment of silence, Noctis took his chance:

_Hey, come visit me tonight?_ he prayed. Noctis didn’t expect an answer, but even then, he knew he was heard. Etro drilled it in him time and time again as a gentle reminder.

( “Ever at your side,” promised a boy prince whose eyes were ladened with phantoms left unsaid. His hands were entangled with Noctis’, and the rings on their fingers glinted from fluorescent lights. )

Noctis felt Gladio fan his incense thrice to end his prayer, and Noctis followed suit. He glanced to his side and waited for Luna to end hers before he stuck his incense to the urn, its smoke now freely dancing in the air rather and mingling along with the others.

Not far from where they stood, an old bell rung: the rite was concluded.

────────────────────────────────────

Had it not been for the sake of public relations, Noctis would’ve spent most of his time in the Citadel gardens. For one, it was mainly solitary and tranquil since the only visitors are the Citadel servants and gardeners who maintain the garden’s cleanliness. For two, following the logic of reason one, it was a quaint place to honor the Goddess of Death. Because beyond the luscious greenery and floras whose colors stood out amid the Citadel walls, there was a spacious sector dedicated to Her. There, basking underneath the moonlit gleam, rested a modest statue surrounded by unbloomed red spider lilies.

Even at the twilight, Noctis knew the details by heart. Unlike the towering statue in the Temple, the sculpture was modest and depicted another representation of Etro: one that closely resembled a foreign prince with a charming smile and an equally adorable laugh. The difference ended there, for instead of wearing the traditional clothes that marked his birthright as an Imperial monarch, he was clad in the same simple robe that the statue in the Temple donned. And at the base of the sculpture lied an intricate incense burner and several simple albeit meaningful offerings: an expensive bottle of wine imported from Tenebrae, a selfie of Iris and Talcott accompanying a flock of delighted chocobos, a well-worn book from one of the romance series Gladio reads from time to time, two pieces of the Tenebraen dessert that Ignis had “yet” to perfect, a plate of Kenny’s special chili fries, and a bouquet of sunflowers and white roses.

Earlier, the retinue provided offerings borne out of respect for the Goddess of Death. But away from prying eyes and doctrines, these gifts were for _Prompto_.

Figured that even if Prompto and Etro were one, the former would still appreciate receiving offerings stemmed out of friendship and love, regardless if it came out in the form of chocobo keychain or Lestallum’s spicy skewers.

And when he did receive those gifts in Valhalla, he would visit them in their dreams or, if they were in desperate need of sleep, leave a quick _thank you_ and a peaceful slumber. It was nice knowing that even in a different plane, Prompto continued to look after them—continued to look after _him._

_“Pardon me, Your Majesty, but why don’t you ask Queen Lunafreya for her hand in marriage? Surely a marriage between the King of Light and the Oracle would bring prosperity to Eos.”_

_“I don’t quite understand why you won’t consider a second marriage an option, Your Grace. After all, your marriage with the Niflheim Prince— may Etro bless his soul— was hardly in your favor.”_

Noctis brought a hand up to his temple and rubbed away his throbbing headache before his frustration could create more wrinkles. He did _not_ want any more reminder of his age— thank you very much. “I swear, if they ask me about my status one more time, I’m going to tell everyone that my ‘dead husband’ is goddamn Etro.”

Luna coughed to hide her amusement. “I doubt Etro would appreciate Her disciples being hurled to a havoc at such extemporaneous announcement.”

“Even from you?”

“Even from me,” she repeated sagely. “It is rather difficult to deal with a deviancy from the old teachings.”

A brief recollection of Bahamut going on a world-ending rampage appeared in his mind. “You can say that again. I’m not exactly feeling up for a repeat of another Astral-related conflict.”

“Agreed.” They stood in front of the sculpture, watching as the smoke coming from the incense reached out to the night skies. That there was little light to illuminate the area, save for the few candles here and there, did little to bother Noctis and Luna. Well, it’s not like they could stumble onto something when there’s no nearby objects that were ready to trip them in record time.

Quietly, Noctis prompted, “Does it bother you?”

“Hm?”

“That the nobles are pushing us to marry?”

“Occasionally,” Luna admitted, much to Noctis’ displeasure. “But more often than not, I do not pay too much attention towards it. I respect your decision to remain loyal to Prompto in light of his ascension, and I do not want to burden you into another marriage.”

“Even if we did end up getting married, I don’t think you’re a burden, Luna,” Noctis said, facing Luna with a contemplative look, “I think you’re doing better than I am even.”

“Just because our methods are different doesn’t mean I am doing better than you,” Luna corrected, smiling in reassurance. “You’re doing wonderfully, Noctis. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“If only the Council could hear you now,” said Noctis with a sardonic tone.

“I would like to extend my sympathies for confronting such threat,” offered Luna, earning a snicker from the king.

“Your support is highly appreciated, Her Majesty.” Watching Luna wrinkle her nose at the title was a rarity. It’s good to know that even the Oracle had qualms in regard to all the fancy titles.

But her feigned distaste is replaced with a wistful smile, as if a realization had dawned on her mid-way, “To think that I’d live and see another day.”

“I was surprised, too, you know.” Noctis hummed. “As soon as I reached the Crystal back then, everything became a mess.”

“Indeed, the intervention of Etro and Bhunivelze had certainly made things more….” Luna pursed her bottom lip in thought, “…complicated than anticipated.”

Understatement of the century, if Noctis could say so himself. “Well, look on the bright side, at least you’re alive.”

“And the souls of our ancestors have rightfully returned to Valhalla,” Luna nodded. “It’s an unexpected turn of events, but for you, perhaps it’s for the best.”

“For us,” Noctis amended. “We don’t have any more prophecies or damned destinies to fulfill. We could do whatever we want— settle down somewhere, take our time, find someone to get hitched with.”

The last comment was more for Luna’s benefit than his. And judging by the quick snort from the Queen of Tenebrae, he knew his intentions were made known. “If ever I do find someone who catches my interest, rest assured you will be the first to know.”

“Thank Etro for childhood friend privileges,” he joked.

“Ah, apologies, you will be the _second_ person to know.”

“Goddamnit, Prompto.” Noctis shot an insincere disdain glare to the sculpture in front of them. Luna’s laugh rang in the air, and, if Noctis would have a say in the matter, he could hear Prompto’s as well from the gentle breeze that had picked up not too long after his playful insult.

(Gladio wouldn’t let Noctis live down the fact that the King of Lucis was a hopeless romantic at heart. Then again, anyone with a poor eyesight could see that as dashing as Noctis appeared to be, his courting was second to none.)

When the comfortable silence settled itself, Luna announced, “I believe it’s time for me to return indoors. I ought to prepare for tomorrow’s departure.”

Noctis smiled, “Thank you for being here.”

“And thank you for your company. Seeing you and your friends is always something I’ve looked forward to.” To the sculpture, she gave the same gentle smile that she had given to Noctis and a courteous bow. Noctis procured six incense sticks from a pack, lit its ends with a nearby candle, and offered three to Luna. When Luna retrieved hers with a quiet gratitude and bowed her in prayer, Noctis busied himself with his own incense.

Taking a deep breath, Noctis closed his eyes and said, _See you tonight?_

No response came, but Noctis felt a burden being lifted off his shoulders, almost as if Prompto was telling him not to worry about his request too much. Well, Noctis couldn’t exactly fault him; after all, it’s been a while since they last spoke in the dreamworld. The responsibilities of a king weren’t exactly manageable every now and then.

Nevertheless, with his prayers kept short, he fanned his incense thrice before delicately planting them in the urn along with Luna’s. The previous incense they’ve used—including those that came before them even-- were long burned out, with some of its ashes spilling on the sides of the urn. Now, only those six incenses stood tall.

Luna lingered for a moment longer as she reached out her delicate hand and cupped Noctis’ cheek. Before Noctis could so much utter a word, she left a chaste kiss on his other cheek. “Rest well, Noctis.”

“You, too, Luna.” Noctis returned, reciprocating her actions. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

With a smile, Luna turned and walked away, following the grass-worn path that led them back to the Citadel. Her movements were graceful and poise, accentuated by the dim moonlight. Even without her powers, Luna retained an aura that made her stood out from the noble women. Whoever was going to end up with her would be lucky, Noctis thought. Luna deserved the best, that’s a fact that hadn’t change over the years.

────────────────────────────────────

Before Noctis opened his eyes, he felt the blades of grass tickle his exposed skin and caught a whiff of a rejuvenating floral scent. But as he fluttered his eyes open, grey, cloudy skies greeted him. He sat up, ignoring the way his limbs protested at the movement, and carefully looked around the red meadow.

The more time he spent searching, the more a frown tugged itself on the corner of his lips. _Where was--_

A mischievous snicker penetrated the silence. “Need some help there, buddy?”

Noctis turned around and mirrored the other’s grin. “Yeah, I’m looking for a cute blondie around your age, five inches shorter than I am.”

Prompto elicited an offended gasp and placed his hands on his hips. “Excuse me? I am _not_ that short! Oh em gee, I’m not offering my help anymore,” he retorted before turning his back to Noctis. 

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” Noctis didn’t bother suppressing his guffaw, but he stood up and brushed away the clumps of dirt that clung to his pants. When Prompto persisted in looking away from betrayal, Noctis took a few steps towards the blond, wrapped his arms around Prompto’s lithe waist, and rested his chin on the other’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Peppering Prompto’s neck with swift kisses did little to appease his husband, yet Noctis didn’t miss how the blond shuddered from his touch nonetheless. “Nuh uh, say it like you mean it, Noct.”

Rolling his eyes, Noctis tightened his embrace, “I would like to humbly apologize for my choice of words, o Goddess of Death. For it is not in my intention to offend you and your name.”

The quiet _pfft_ did not go unnoticed by either of the two. “Yanno, it still weirds me out whenever you do that kingly apology.”

“Should I stop?” The question was not as serious as one expected it to be.

Prompto briefly looked at the sky, ruminating over his response with a lengthy hum. But ultimately, he shook his head. “Nah, I like this character development,”

“Two decades and you’re still a nerd,” Noctis sighed.

Prompto leaned his head onto Noctis’ and quipped, “You married this nerd, remember?”

“Heads up, the marriage wasn’t expected.”

“Oh? Are you regretting our matrimony now, Your Majesty?”

“Look at you and your big words.” To emphasize his point, Noctis pressed his fingers onto Prompto’s side, earning a giggle from the blond. Well, guess being ticklish hadn’t changed despite the divinity. 

“Noct!” Prompto cried in-between his laughs. “You’re avoiding my question. I wonder what the press has to say to that.”

“King Noctis avoids drama by tickling Etro. More sacrilegious content found on page what’s-it,” Noctis recited. “Man, I can’t wait for the pitchforks to come. One way to retire early, that’s for sure.”

Prompto hummed, “Do you even have retirement plans ready?” 

“Of course,” Noctis deadpanned, briefly wondering why his husband even had the audacity to ask such inane question. “I settle down in Cape Caem, fish erryday, and wait for your ass to come down so we can start your chocobo farm.”

“Ooh, I like the sound of that,” Pompto said, content.

“Glad I have your approval. All’s that left is the execution.” Noctis lowered his voice, “Wish it could happen soon though.”

“It’ll come sooner or later. Just be patient, bro,” Prompto said before wiggling his way out of Noctis’ embrace. “Now get off me! Your beard itches.”

Now it was Noctis’ turn to be offended, “Says the guy who’s got that weird patch on his chin.”

“A goatee isn’t weird!” Prompto whined in a way that screamed that they had this conversation for gods-know-how-long. Time didn’t deter them from snipping each other about their facial hair though. “At least mine doesn’t leave beard burns behind!’

“Hey, this beard is either ‘hot’ or ‘annoying’. Take your pick, Prom, before you could bitch about it,” Noctis scoffed, but allowed Prompto to leave his arms so that they could stand face-to-face. But even with the newfound distance, their hands remained intertwined with one another. 

The two of them amid a meadow of red: the scene was uncannily similar to one experience, but the meadow was brimming with sylleblossoms rather than spider lilies; instead of Prompto, it was Luna offering her condolence and wishing her final farewells. 

(Exactly what this scenery has something to do with divinity, Noctis didn’t know an answer to that. Hell, unless this was more on the Etro side of Prompto, Noctis wasn’t remotely aware that the blond had an affinity for nature that wasn’t chocobo-sized.)

But unlike Luna, Prompto wasn’t here to say his goodbyes and remind him of the Astrals’ prophecy. No, Prompto was here for other reasons that didn’t revolve around visions and future deaths. He was here because Noctis needed his best friend-- nothing more, nothing less. And now Prompto stood in front of him, his appearance altered to the age that matched Noctis’, since the King felt awkward that his significant other was flaunting his eternal youth while Noctis himself grew older each day. 

The only significant change that Noctis teased was the gods-damned goatee really. 

“It’s…” A flustered Prompto was a sight to see, especially when he bit his lower lip in a pensive and indecisive manner. Gods, Noctis wanted to kiss him silly. “It’s hot, okay?! I just really don’t like the beard burn!”

“Can’t you poof it away with your god powers?” Noctis airily suggested. 

“Doesn’t feel human if I do that,” Prompto shrugged. “Striving for realism here, dude. I still want to feel stuff, yanno.”

“Right, I forgot.” Noctis tugged Prompto closer to him and swung his arm around the other’s waist. When Prompto situated himself comfortably next to Noctis’ side, Noctis began to walk. To where? Noctis didn’t care. It’s better than standing around anyway, and it’s not like they can get lost in the meadow. “How else can you enjoy your chili fries?”

“See?! Oh yeah, thanks for those by the way. Kinda sad that I got them cold, but whatever, I’m not complaining. Iggy’s pastry though…” Prompto sighed dreamily, “now that’s another level!”

“Yeah, it is,” Noctis affirmed. “You talked with the others already?”

“Yep! Had a nice long chat with all of them, especially Iggy. Gotta give your advisor all my love and support after whipping up those desserts, yeah?” Prompto gave a light shove.

“I’m still amazed you didn’t give Gladio allergies every time you visit him here,” Noctis said. “With all these flowers here, he’d be sneezing like crazy.”

Had Noctis ever mentioned how melodious Prompto’s laugh was? Probably not. “Chill, dude, it’s just a dreamscape. I’d actually feel pretty bad if I trigger his allergy. Anywho, how are you doing? You don’t give me enough juice with all your ‘come hang out with me’.”

A slight warmth blossomed on Noctis’ cheeks. Now that Prompto mentioned it, Noctis hardly expounded on how he’s been faring as of late. His kingly duties consumed too much of his time and energy for him to have a lengthy albeit one-sided conversation with Prompto. And honestly, Noctis was glad that the Crystal’s toll on his Lucian bloodline had kindly shoved off; that’s one burden that he no longer had to fret over. So, he talked about anything under the weather from his accumulating stress and worries to his doubts. And through it all, Prompto listened.

“I know I asked before,” Noctis started, “but are you sure I’m not accidentally pissing Bhunivelze off?”

“Uh, depends on the question…?” Prompto cocked his head to the side.

Clearing his throat, Noctis shoved both his hands in his pockets. “Like, y’know, romantically. ‘Cause, marriage-wise, I’m tied with you. But you’re also tied with Him as Etro?”

“Oh, _that._ Yeah, well, uh, how do I put this? Um…” Prompto drawled out the first word before taking avid interest in the flowers. But he took a deep breath-- preparing himself for one hell of an explanation, no doubt-- and resumed, “Okay so, yes, I’m a hundred percent positive that you’re not stepping on His toes. If anything, He’s pissed off with me.”

An awkward chuckle escaped Prompto’s lips. While the response was similar to his previous replies, the last admission, however, was a new one. Noctis furrowed his brows in confusion at the new admission. “What?” 

“It’s…” Noctis watched Prompto fiddle with his thumbs-- an action that the King recognized as a nervous tic. “Complicated.”

“So? That hasn’t stopped me before,” Noctis pressed. 

For a moment there, Prompto’s eyes glinted a gold hue. It wasn’t obvious, but Noctis knew better than to believe that it was a trick of the eye. “Bhunivelze doesn’t like My merging with a mortal soul. He disapproves of how my humanity altered My judgment on all things, including our relationship.”

Sometimes Noctis forgot that he was not only talking to his best friend, but also to one of the deities that could potentially end his existence right here and now. Then again, even Prompto took his time to adjust to the change: the transition from _Me and Etro_ to _We_ was slow _._ It’s easier to distinguish Prompto from Etro then; now though, it required a bit of scrutiny on Noctis’ end, mostly on the vocabulary used.

(Noctis would flip if Etro Herself would whole-heartedly include _dude_ and _bro_ in Her vernacular. It’s not every day one encountered Astrals and _not_ expect them to use their holy language.)

“So, He’s fine with us being romantically involved since He understands how marriage works,” clarified Prompto. “Just not with Me per se.”

Noctis grimaced in sympathy. “Are you going to be okay?”

Prompto shook his head and casually patted the king’s shoulder, “Don’t worry too much about me, okay? This guy can handle himself just fine.”

Prompto’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. Even as a deity, Prompto continued to wear his emotions on his sleeves, which was one of things Noctis was grateful for. Noctis didn’t think that Prompto wouldn’t be who he was now if his emotions were stashed away.

The smile faded away eventually and gave way for a concerned pout. “Hey, what’s that look for, buddy?”

Now it was Noctis’ turn to dismiss the other’s concern. “Nothing, just thought of something. That’s all.”

It wasn’t an answer Prompto was expecting, judging by the way how his pout remained and how his nimble hand cupped Noctis’ cheek and forced their eyes to meet. Even now, Noctis was taken back by the depth of Prompto’s indigo eyes-- the added golden specks in them just multiplied the allure of it. They were radiant but also shouldered myriads of things that Noctis categorized as indescribable: he recognized the same shadows that haunted _Prompto_ , but beyond that, he couldn’t discern the rest. 

“Thought of what?” Prompto prodded. They were close-- close enough for their noses to brush against one another, for Noctis to count the freckles that decorated Prompto’s skin, for their lips to meet for the millionth time. 

Noctis leaned on Prompto’s gentle caress. “...Thought of how I should offer you a razor for that goatee of yours next time.”

A burst of laughter escaped Prompto’s lips. “Fine, you win. The goatee will be gone the next time we meet. Divine decree or whatever. Happy?”

Noctis smiled, “Definitely.” 

He tugged Prompto closer without a warning and pressed his lips against the blondie. And when Prompto responded, Noctis slid his arms around Prompto’s waist and felt the other’s palms resting on the side of Noctis’ shoulder. 

Noctis missed this intimacy-- he missed Prompto in general. He craved it when his duties took too much toll on his state, when he had to deal with an economic crisis that came from food shortage and fiscal scenarios, when he had to put the people’s need before his own. Of course, Noctis appreciated the company he had with him now-- Ignis, Gladio, Luna, Iris, Talcott, Aranea, and the rest. But Prompto’s presence had a different effect. It always had ever since Noctis realized that he was stupidly in-love with a blondie who tried his damndest to beat Noctis’ ass in King’s Knight after confidently calling himself a “pro gamer”. 

(They were so young and naive back then, weren’t they? Life seemed simpler back then-- everything was just painted in black and white.)

Prompto was the first to pull away. He rested his forehead against Noctis’, eyes still closed, and breathed. Noctis did the same; he held onto Prompto and let the silence settle between them. 

The next time Noctis opened his eyes, he saw the meadow losing its colors and later its clarity. Whatever tranquility he had now was replaced with a resigned acceptance. Prompto needn’t to open his eyes to know what made Noctis stiffen underneath his touch.

“Time to wake up, buddy,” Prompto whispered with a rueful smile.

Noctis only tightened his grip on Prompto, desperately trying to ignore the fading landscape that would signal the end of his time-- time with his best friend and most importantly, his lover. “Please, not yet.”

“Sorry, Noct,” Prompto replied, his eyes soft and his tone softer. “But that’s all the time I can give before Iggy forces you to wake up.”

It happened once, and Noctis could confidently say that it wasn’t a pleasant experience. Such happening became possible only because Noctis didn’t inform Ignis of his meeting with Prompto ahead of time.

The mention of another repeat of that particular disaster elicited a sigh from the King. He really should have known better than to be optimistic about having more time. “Guess I’ll see you next weekend?”

“Yeah, next weekend.” Prompto took a step away from Noctis, but there’s a slight falter in his movements in his attempt to create that distance. “Don’t look so down, Noct. You know I’ll always be here. I’m not exactly going anywhere, yanno?”

Noctis heard a strain in Prompto’s laugh. Why it’s there piqued his curiosity, but that’s a question that ought to be reserved for the next visit. “I know, I know.”

The world around him blurred. Darkness slowly crept up to Noctis’ vision. It was almost time-- just a few more seconds, and Prompto would no longer be standing in front of him. He would wake up alone in his bed, with his eyes transfixed on the ceilings and his hands feeling cold and empty. 

“Noctis,” Prompto called, as if sensing the king’s melancholy. When Prompto flashed a bittersweet smile, Noctis thought _don’t go don’t go don’t go_ as if he was ten years old again, as if he wasn’t shouldering the lives of his citizens and Lucis. “I love you.”

Three simple words. And before Noctis could utter the words back, Prompto was gone, along with the meadows of red unbloomed flowers and grey skies. Instead, soft cushions and blaring alarms greeted Noctis at eight in the morning. His bed felt empty; his confession that was on the tip of his tongue stopped; and his ring, an intricate little thing that bore Niflheim style, was cold and heavy.

The chamber’s doors swung open as Ignis entered the room and approached the foot of the bed. “Good morning.”

Noctis heaved a sigh and brought a hand up to brush his hair away from his eyes. “Morning.”

“How was your meeting with Prompto?” asked Ignis, who took the initiative to silence the alarms. Good, those things were a second away from being replaced— royal etiquette be damned.

“It was…” _Short. Not enough time. I didn’t even say I love you back goddamnit._ “Fine. Prom’s still as chatty as ever.”

“Indeed,” Ignis smirked, no doubt recalling one of his conversations with the blond. “Breakfast is ready. Do try to be early this time before it gets cold.”

“No promises.” It was another day, another morning. There’s no surprise there. ‘So, what’s the agenda for today?”

“I’m glad you asked,” said Ignis, right before rattling off the list of things Noctis needed to do from memory. Just hearing a quarter of the itinerary made Noctis groan and swing his arm over his eyes. _Fuck, why’d he do that?_

For a moment there, Noctis heard a familiar laugh brushing past his ear. Well, at least one of them was happy at ass o’clock in the morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took the _Dawn of the Future_ ending and rolled with it, even though I don't have the novel to begin with smh. So after this, it's going to be heavy, I guess??? Hecc. I literally have no self-control when it comes to shitposting mm. My other FFXV works can attest to that.
> 
> Welp, thanks for reading anyway! Feel free to leave a comment or a kudos since I eat those for desserts. Criticism is also appreciated, especially spelling and grammatical errors! If you wanna speculate about what bs I'm going to pull out of my ass next, let me know, too :DDDD


	2. Can I See Heaven's Light With a Magic Spell and Candlelight?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a slight disappointment that glinted in the child’s eyes as he repeated, “Etro said She’ll send someone to take me somewhere safe.”
> 
> In her short years of service, never had she encountered a child as strange as he. Still, for him to hear the words of the goddess— was he that close to death? “You commune with the Goddess, dear?”
> 
> “Yes,” he hummed as his eyes strayed to the ground. “She talks to me every night, tells me to stay strong and some stories, too. But this is the first time She’s sent someone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: since this is the first chapter I wrote, the writing style is hella different. This is pre-shitpost content, so this chapter's more plot heavy and dates _waaaay_ back to the beginning oop
> 
> Welcome to Solheim Era, guys and gals 
> 
> Oh yeah, remember that Graphic Depictions of Violence tag? It’s gonna be applied near the ending of this chapter because blood. Yeah. Title for this chapter is from Florist's _M_

**_A long time ago_ **

Had it been any other day, Ilios would daresay consider tonight relatively peaceful: he would marvel at the celestial sky above, adorned with little brilliant lights and a faint wisp of clouds, where the moon would watch over Eos and await the dawn. But tonight was different, for instead of reveling the moonlit allure of twilight, the skies were blocked by a thick cloud of smoke and ashes. And instead of silence, there was chaos.

His footwear did little to soften the jutting pebbles as he sprinted with all the energy he had left. Even as he stretched the distance between himself and the burning village, he could still feel the flame’s tantalizing caress brushing against his back and hear steel clashing against steel over unintelligible screams. It’s tempting to turn-- to glance over his shoulder and see the fire raze and the daemons plunder the remains of what was essentially his home. But as soon as he spared a glimpse, a woman pulled him close to her body, her fingers clutching tightly onto his sides.

“Don’t look,” the woman all-but-begged, her wrinkles more pronounced from apprehension than Ilios could remember. To see the trepidation visibly etched on her kind face had sowed fear in him as well. Throughout the short years Ilios had known her, not once did he see her this distraught, even when a patient of hers had succumbed to death’s sweet embrace. “Keep your eyes forward and don’t look back.”

From a distance, a haunting scream breached the tension before it eventually waned into dreaded silence, all bar the guttural snarks and cackle of the daemons. The priestess’ grip tightened, and he suppressed a wince in response. 

Ilios hardly needed to see her expression, but he briefly peeked at the silver pendant dangling on the woman’s neck, where Etro’s symbol swayed erratically from all the running. Ilios shifted his focus on his own pendant, quite similar to the woman’s and anyone who were devout to the Goddess of Death, clenched onto the symbol with his free hand, and uttered a quiet plea under his ragged breath: “Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, may Your mercy protect us from evil.”

For a moment, the hand on his side loosened. But when another resounding bellow resonated from behind, the little second of reassurance was cast aside for survival’s sake. No weapons in hand, warded with only Her blessing and not of the Hexatheon’s, they escaped into the night. 

Ahead of them, Ilios could see the silhouette of a chocobo, guiding them away from the chaos. Unfortunately, Ilios could not identify the specifics, for its movements were blurred and its figure too veiled by the shadows. But Ilios could sense its presence— hear its quiet _pitter-patter_ of steps that could be easily mistaken for a breeze, guiding them away from the turmoil sent by the Hexatheon. The priestess might not see it, but Ilios did. From its presence, he knew his prayer was answered. 

────────────────────────────────────

Amara knew the child was different the moment she had first laid her eyes on him. Call it fate if you will, but she believed that on one quiet night, Etro had led her to one impoverished child, nearing death’s domain, in an alley untouched by light. He was gaunt, sickly pale, and still like the marble statues proudly displayed in public view. His ragged clothes were but one accident away from losing its functions, and his hair was caked with dirt and debris Amara failed to recognize. But above all, his hollow eyes were unbefitting for someone so young. If it weren’t for the occasional blinks, Amara would’ve considered this child long gone.

Releasing the breath she unknowingly held, the priestess took a cautious step one after another until she was kneeling in front of the child, who remained passive from her approach. His reticence unnerved her, but she set her worries aside and asked in the motherly tone she had hone over the years, “Are you cold, child?”

He gave no response. Unsurprising really, given his lack of awareness. Either way, she continued to ask questions here and then; her attempts were proven futile until the barest brush of her fingers against his cold skin finally elicited a response.

Gone was the emptiness that clouded his blue eyes, and in its stead was clarity. He blinked once, twice, then rapidly until his visions had adjusted to his environment. When his body registered the nightly chill brought forth by the Glacian, he instinctively huddled himself for warmth. Then finally, his eyes landed on hers, as if recognizing her presence for the first time.

She retracted her hand away as he weakly cocked his head to the side and asked in a barely audible voice, “Is it you?”

It was her turn to blink-- to let the child’s question process itself and solve its vagueness. Had they met before? Or did she missed some words from his mumbling? With a slight furrow of her brows, she asked, “I beg your pardon?” 

There was a slight disappointment that glinted in the child’s eyes as he repeated, “Etro said She’ll send someone to take me somewhere safe.”

In her short years of service, never had she encountered a child as strange as he. Still, for him to hear the words of the goddess— was he that close to death? “You commune with the Goddess, dear?”

“Yes,” he hummed as his eyes strayed to the ground. “She talks to me every night, tells me to stay strong and some stories, too. But this is the first time She’s sent someone.”

If what he says is true, then the High Priestess needs to be informed, mused Amara. For all she knows, this child could be Etro’s Messenger, although why he acted oblivious raises a few questions on its own. There were many speculations running in her mind, but she would save those for another day. For now, she must secure the child to safety; it was a mission from Etro herself, a task that Amara would not fail.

“Then I believe I may aid you,” said Amara, her resolution firm. When she caught his attention, she continued, “I have not introduced myself, have I? I am Sister Amara, servant of Etro. But you may call me Amara. And you are?” 

The smile he gave was brimming with emotions, a clear juxtaposition to his earlier state of lifelessness. But unlike the children she had dealt in her service, his smile was dampened by the grim reality he had to endure at a young age. Living on the streets was no simple life— that Amara could understand.

“Ilios,” he greeted, “Nice to meet you!”

“May I ask where your parents are, Ilios?” 

The smile faltered, his smile less bright than it was a moment before. Amara felt a heavy pang for being the one who had sullied the boy’s joy. “I don’t know.” 

“Do you know of them? Their appearance or their names?”

He shook his head, confirming Amara’s suspicions.

“Nevermind,” she sighed and extended her hand towards the child. “Come, let me get you out of the cold.”

Amara flinched when his pale hand darted out to grasp hers. He needed to be taken somewhere warm to combat the chill as soon as possible. Hypothermia and frostbite were cruel, merciless things that should never be underestimated. Etro knew how many refugees they’ve taken in who lost their toes and their fingers from the frigid temperature.

Quietly, as Ilios was pulled up to his feet, he asked, “Will you take me somewhere safe?”

She looked closely into his eyes and saw a flicker of hope-- a small thing that was nearing its end-- withheld by fear. What even happened to him that placed him in this situation to begin with?

Smiling, she reassured, “Yes, child, I will take you somewhere safe. You have my word.”

With his hand in hers, they departed from the alley illuminated by no light and made their way to what would the child eventually call his home.

Amara found Ilios on the verge of death at the mere age of five. But when he was swiftly taken under the Temple’s care— less on his condition and more on his peculiar ability— the boy’s health took a turn in the positive light: for one, he had meat in his bones, and his blond hair took a healthier shine. With days’ worth of grime scrubbed off his pale skin, his freckles made an appearance.

(One of the sisters cooed over the freckles, pointedly exclaiming how it suits Ilios and adds to his cuteness. That was the first time Amara saw the boy flush from the attention. Hell, it was one of earliest reactions that were elicited from the boy even.)

But in light of his ability, the devotees of Etro knew that in the wrong hands Ilios, now entitled as the Seer, could be a weapon. He had the ability to see how a person would meet their demise, but only if their time drew near. Once, Ilios was curious enough to see if he could take a glimpse of those who were far from death’s grasp, but his juvenile nature only resulted in weeks-long coma. No further attempts were made thereafter, for the High Priestess feared that they would lose the supposed Messenger.

(Whether or not Ilios was truly a Messenger remained an enigma. A child blessed with such visions could only mean he had some sort of connection with the goddess of death. Yet, when prompted, he would always state that he longed for companionship. No one wanted to speak of a child who longed for death, so they kept their assumptions to a minimum. Still, the confusion that erupted from Ilios’ condition dwindled when the High Priestess raised her hand to silence the room and deemed the child as a Seer. There’s a fine line drawn between a Messenger and a Seer, but Ilios was different from the rest of them. So the title remained, with the child himself shrugging at his rank and begging Amara if he could go with her to the bustling marketplace.)

However, the other traits Ilios possessed were what Amara fret over the most. There were days when Ilios would behave…. unnaturally. Not in a way that there would be random aggressive outbursts that would startle a normally peaceful ambiance-- no; it was the other way around. 

Whenever Ilios was caught alone in a room, they would always find him in a catatonic state. He would stare at a wall for several hours, unfazed by the concerned voices from the priests and nuns. No amount of yelling nor magic could shake the boy out of this unnerving state. A sudden physical contact would work however, but after the first incident, the Church knew better than to let Ilios awaken naturally-- just like waking up at the rise of dawn to prepare for the day ahead, even if it took several hours.

It was better this way, for all parties involved, to not stray from the path Etro had placed for them. It was better this way to let Ilios experience a taste of what his childhood was supposed to be, rather than leave him frantic and hysterical over something that they _couldn’t_ see nor understand just because his _eerie_ behavior was disconcerting for the others. 

And that was another thing that concerned Amara as well-- his ability to see beyond the physical realm. Often, when the hour of twilight came, Ilios would stare at the stars, marveling at the bright light that settled itself on the center of the sky. It wasn’t the moon nor the stars he was gawking at, Ilios would ardently claim; instead, it was the Gate to Valhalla and the souls that would pass by it. He was truly a bizarre child, one who was blessed by the pagan goddess Herself. But ultimately, in the eyes of great Solheim’s monarchy and nobility, he was but a pawn— a weapon of subterfuge, a means to escape a painful certain death. And in the eyes of the Hexatheon’s worshippers, he was an omen.

Nevertheless, the years had been kind to the buy under the wing of Etro’s devotees, he matured to a twenty-year-old man, with his freckles more pronounced under the rays of the sun and his blond hair delicately framing his pale face, with his spirit more vital and alive compared to when Amara found him shivering from Shiva’s nightly chill. As Ilios tended the temple’s garden and gently caressed the petals of a red spider lily, Amara couldn’t help but wonder if this was truly the child’s calling: a Seer, a boy who pre-maturely danced with death, a boy who struggled to maintain filial bonds with people his age yet endeavored his best to be amicable as possible, a boy who every now and then witnessed the many ways of how death can simply take one’s life away with a snap of its fingers.

Was Ilios happy with the life he had now— happy to be death’s servant, happy to serve a goddess, whose religion was but a crumbling dust in comparison to the Hexatheon’s?

(For who would worship an absent Astral who had long forsaken mankind? Who would worship a felled deity who was as imperfect as humanity? Ilios’ presence was the first sign from the Goddess of Death for centuries. He sparked hope among Etro’s faithful, knowing that the patron goddess they worship still listened to their prayers and their pleas. His clairvoyance had sown doubt among the people who believed that the Tidemother was the Harbinger of Death. Well, it was raised by scholars that he might’ve been the Hydraean’s Messenger, but the golden runes that graced Ilios’ eyes at unpredictable times proved otherwise.)

Even Amara failed to discern whether Ilios lied, for he had always brushed off their concerns and continued with his business. Would he ever wonder his simple his life would have been had he not been deemed as the Seer? How unnatural it was to stop and endlessly gaze at an object with glazed eyes in the middle of performing a task, to see and talk to apparitions that no one else could see. _Had Ilios ever imagined living a normal life?_

Amara didn’t know. It’s ironic really that even a sister harbored the fear of the unknown, when the teachings of Etro had told them to embrace it.

────────────────────────────────────

The daemons were agile. No matter how long Ilios and Amara ran, the daemons caught up to them: the imps cackled for every missteps Ilios made, the bombs heaved a ghastly laugh and taunt its prey with incoherent mumblings, and the iron giants appeared for every momentary break. This was the Infernian’s wrath— the retaliation against men’s lust for sovereignty. Where were the rest of the Hexatheon? That, Ilios did not know.

But now, the journey to another haven remained suspiciously quiet. The daemons had stopped the chase shortly after Ilios and Amara entered the threshold of the woods. Now only rustling leaves, weary steps, and haggard breaths echoed within the confinements of the aged yet gnarled trees.

The Messenger of Etro—the shadowy illusion that took the form of a white chocobo— glanced at Ilios, and he, in turn, nodded and attempted to dismiss the Messenger’s concern. The look the Messenger gave was an apologetic one, yet Ilios gave a small smile in reassurance.

We’ll be fine, he consoled himself. The sun will rise soon.

Beside him, Amara faltered on her footing. Had it not been for Ilios’ reflexes, they would’ve both stumbled to the ground.

“Mara!” Ilios cried, his sudden outburst causing the startled Messenger to skid to a halt. 

“I’m fine,” she answered albeit weakly. “Not as young as I used to be.” 

Torn, Ilios looked back and forth between the priestess and the Messenger. “We should rest before we--“

But Amara intercepted with a sharp retort, “No, no, we have to keep going. There’s a village past these woods. We’ll be safe there.”

“Please,” he pleaded, “a minute or two would suffice. No more, no less.”

Ilios’ gaze was firm when her eyes settled on his, and it softened when the priestess sighed and nodded, “Alright, but we shouldn’t dally any longer than necessary.”

“I understand.” With the Messenger trailing after them, Ilios led her to a nearby tree and gently assisted her in sitting down. Once Amara was settled against the tree trunk, he occupied the space to her right and released a long breath. His attention perked when he felt a presence beside him, but Ilios relaxed when a soft _kweh_ reached his ears. Smiling at the Messenger who nestled itself comfortably by his side, Ilios brought a hand up and caressed the chocobo’s feathers. As the Messenger preened, he muttered, “Thank you, Seraph.”

Now that they stopped running, the weariness that came from over-exertion thrummed: his fingers trembled from adrenaline and his legs screamed from the continuous sprint. He craned his neck upwards and stared at the uncannily bright sky, where he could see myriads of soul passing through the Gate of Etro, all coming from Solheim’s direction. Tonight was the most souls Ilios had witnessed entering Valhalla’s domain; the sheer number of the wisps would’ve made one thought that it wasn’t night at all. And based on what had happened thus far, Ilios had a feeling that tonight was just the beginning of the end.

He tore his gaze away from the sky and focused on Amara instead. It worried him to see her eyes closed, but a quick look at her breathing brushed aside the fear of her being taken away, just like the rest of the matrons who had kindly treated Ilios during his stay at the Church of Etro.

But to think that he was unable to foresee this event before, it was a curious thought. At the very least, he should’ve been able to catch a glimpse from someone who was felled by daemons or razed by Ifrit’s ire. But the days prior tonight, there was nothing related to Solheim’s fall— absolutely no one triggered a vision. Did it mean that the ones with their deaths foreseen had survived the whole ordeal? It sounded too optimistic for Ilios’ taste, but one could only hope for the best amid trying times.

Whatever it was, he hoped Etro would warmly accept the new souls and reincarnate them to a new life. Some lives were taken pre-maturely, as Ilios had witnessed during their escape.

With a quiet sigh, Ilios closed his eyes and allowed himself this moment of respite.

“Ilios,” a frantic yet suppressed voice called as a hand shook Ilios out from his dreamless sleep. “Ilios!”

He grumbled, cracking an eye open, “What?”

“Sshh!” Amara quickly silenced. “The daemons are here.”

The mentions of daemons quickly chased away any remnants of drowsiness Ilios had. As he regained his gatherings, he noticed that Seraph was tense, her normally gentle eyes locked on the shadows where the imps’ faint cackling and an iron giant’s booming footsteps resonated. Amara’s hand remained on his shoulder, her clutch nearly strong enough to elicit a cry of discomfort. But on times like these, it would be foolish to complain over something so trivial.

“We need to leave,” Amara whispered. Had Seraph decided to make her presence known to everyone, then Amara would’ve noticed the Messenger nodding in agreement. Cautious in maintaining their silence, they slowly stood up and walked away from their rest point. It was difficult navigating through the woods and stepping past dried leaves and broken figs without the assistance of daylight. But the daemons drew closer for every second wasted. Unless the sun rose from the horizon, Ilios and Amara would doom themselves to a painful demise.

Unnerving was the word Ilios used to describe his fear whenever the sickening s _quelch_ of a mindflayer’s tentacles or the staccato _thump_ of an arachne’s legs were too close for comfort. Even a shadow’s flight was enough to break Ilios’ remaining composure. But he remained firm and held his breath to avoid giving away their location, even a hollowed, distorted cry of a mother rang and wept for a lost child. 

Ilios wanted to go home—back when the monarchs of Solheim rejoiced the Astrals instead of exploiting Their generosity, back when the gardens at the back of the church would bloom and ushered an aromatic scent that calmed his troubled mind. But that home was gone, and the Infernian had all but turned His back against the very people who used to worship Him and the rest of the Hexatheon.

Before long, as Seraph lead them deeper into the woods—or farther, Ilios could no longer tell— Ilios spotted a clearing from a distance. When he turned to face Amara, he caught a glimpse of a horrified expression before he was unceremoniously pushed forward. With a surprised cry, he tumbled and roughly landed on the ground. His outburst alarmed the Messenger and the nearby daemons, but his attention wasn’t on Seraph’s concerned _squawk_ nor on the daemons’ blood-curling howls.

It was the grotesque slice of a blade meeting flesh and the specks of blood that landed on the back of his shirt that caught his utmost attention. As he heard a body collide against the ground with a loud _thump_ , Ilios felt dread instilled itself deeply to his core. With trembling figures, he craned his neck ever-so-slowly and hitched a breath at the sight.

Blood seeped out from the gaping slice on her torso, tainting Amara’s dirtied dress, and pooling around her lifeless body. Her dull, widened eyes were transfixed on the skies, as if she saw a glimpse of Etro’s Gate and marveled at its ethereality on her last breath. But just a few feet away from her stood a man clad in a light _yukata_ , with his crimson katana coated with Amara’s blood. But his features were hidden by his _kasa_.

Lost, confounded— Ilios gaped at the sight in disbelief. Amara’s name fell from his lips, but even he had troubles hearing his own whisper. Why would this man murder a civilian in cold blood, during a daemons’ pursuit no less? Why in Valhalla’s name did he kill Amara? _Had he lost his godsdamned mind?!_

The stickiness of his hands momentarily lulled Ilios out of his thoughts, yet he knew without bothering to spare a glance that his palms were coated with the same substance of the red puddle. He hadn’t realized that his nails dug too deeply onto his palms. But in the end, it was trivial compared to seeing the woman who had raised him felled by the hands of a lunatic. He glared at the murderer with clear animosity, and at the top of his voice—the hordes of daemons be damned— he screamed, “What is wrong with you, you son of a _—"_

But as the man tilted his head upward just enough for Ilios to see the samurai’s eyes, Ilios understood.

This was not a human. It was a _daemon_.

And that same daemon bore its crimson eyes onto Ilios’, as if mocking the man whether he truly had the audacity to yell profanities at a being that could fell anything with one single swoop of his blade. It shifted on its feet, katana raised. It was ready for another kill.

Ilios took a step back and another, his rage replaced with fear. So this was how his life would end? Felled by the Infernian’s creations borne out of revenge? How amusing it was to think that as someone who could foretell death, he wasn’t able to predict his own or Amara’s and the countless citizens who had succumbed to this catastrophe. Then again, he had lived long enough, hadn’t he? He should’ve died on that alley either way, a poor abandoned victim to Shiva’s chill. Was this Etro’s way of saying that he had run out of time? If so, what a gruesome way to end his tale.

Another step backward. The Messenger’s cry was nearly drowned by the rustling bushes to his right, but Ilios could care less. This daemon would end him before the others would. 

And when the daemon lunged, Ilios closed his eyes and muttered his last prayer.

No blade met his skin. But Ilios felt a rush of wind and warmth that embraced him instead.

_“Wake up_ , _Ilios.”_

Ilios knew that voice. It was the same gentle voice that kept him company in his dreams and accompanied him when he was alone. Its presence alone radiated warmth and amity, an aura befitting its role as Etro’s Messenger.

_“It’s safe. Nothing will hurt you here, I promise!”_

Here? Did that mean—

Ilios fluttered his eyes open. The first thing that came to view after the blurriness had passed was the Messenger of Etro itself, still taking the form of a white chocobo. Relieved, Seraph cooed in delight and butted its head against him.

“I’m alright. I’m alright,” He softly laughed at the sudden display of affection as he combed the Messenger’s feathers. He brought the Messenger to an embrace, glad that he was able to at least reunite with his friend in Valhalla.

Wait—

He paused, pulled away from the embrace, and looked around his surroundings. It was clear from the infrastructure alone that he was no longer in the daemon-infested woods. The room was neither hot nor cold, dim nor bright— it found its equilibrium, if Ilios could say so himself. Aside from the Messenger’s pure white plumage, everything was painted in monotonous colors, all except for the floating throne.

A throne that sat no one, but Ilios could feel Her presence, nonetheless. As his gaze remained on the empty throne, a motherly yet sovereign voice proclaimed:

_”Welcome home, Child.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone reading this: _Is this reincarnation?_
> 
> me: uhHHHHHH yes, I guess?????
> 
> Have I scared you all yet with how plot heavy this is 🤔 btw thank you guys for leaving kudos and comments and/or giving this fic a chance in general! You guys really made my day and inspired me to work faster <33
> 
> Up next, though it’s still a work-in-progress: Seer Meets Accursed, a theorized albeit completely bs cosmogenesis, and italics. Like a _lot_ of italics.


	3. My Skin is a Story with Marks and Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“One day, Child, you shall witness these for yourself. You shall whole-heartedly embrace the love of your family, cherish the camaraderie shared between those who will stand beside you, and treasure the one who will see you as his equal, his light, and his world. All these you will nurture, just as You have tended the hellflowers with adoration, gentleness, and reverence. They shall embrace you for who you are—not as a Seer, but as yourself. Trials and tribulations these bonds shall undergo. But should you hold onto these, they will persist until death do them part.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sacrificed Genshin to play FFXV, and I sacrificed FFXV to finish this chapter. I wonder how much bs and theorized versus concepts I can squeeze into this chapter--
> 
> Anywho, enjoy! The title for this chapter is from mxmtoon's _porcelain._

_“I have forgotten when a willing listener would hear the tale of how the universe came to be, for many referred to the Hexatheon's. My Children merely plead for sanctuary in the Beyond for a life less evil than what they have had. To Me, they confide their fears and worries of their beginning and their end— never the cosmogenesis. Nevertheless, your request is far from unusual, Child. It is inevitable that you, too, will know the beginning of all things._

_The universe is created with a snap of the Creator’s fingers. When He speaks, the heavens follow His command, and all is set in place. It is through Him that the first of His Creations came to be: Radiant Lindzei, Hallowed Pulse, and I. And together, from chaos—the very essence of all things-- the world is forged._

_It is Hallowed Pulse who nurtures the beasts of sky, earth, ocean, and the floras that gave the land its color; I who crafted the image of mankind and the machinations of a soul borne out of chaos; and Radiant Lindzei who blessed humanity with virtues and beauty. But those are but an inkling of what We have created; for We are the Architects, the Designers of all things you see, feel, hear, and sense in the waking world._

_With the world deemed perfect, the Creator sets the pieces: mankind, out of My image, and the Six, out of His, are introduced to the realm. From there the foundations of order are set in stone as balance and prosperity among gods and men flourished. Such was the creation of Almighty Bhunivelze, all made possible by His hand.”_

────────────────────────────────────

Valhalla was far from what Ilios expected. Even when Seraph and Etro imparted their insights of the realm’s ethereal appearance when he was still… alive if that’s the appropriate word to be used given his circumstance. There was no sun nor moon that graced the sky; instead, there, beyond the murky green skies and the grey clouds, were streams of wisps travelling in groups. If Ilios hadn’t known any better, then he would most likely describe them as dancing lights or the constellations up close. There were too many of them to count, but then again, these were souls whose time in the waking realm had expired. Still, the sheer number of them had the boy taken aback. They come and go, pouring in and leaving from one Gate to another. But not all souls follow the herd; some of them fall from the skies and land on the expansive albeit colorless plains of Valhalla.

Those souls lingered. Some attempted to return to the streams in the skies and allow Etro guide them to their new life, but their endeavors were futile; others, who had reached such conclusion, wandered around the plains instead—like the soul that stood beside Ilios now. The soul clung too tightly to his loved ones left behind, Ilios deduced as the other whispered apologies repeatedly.

“What will happen to my family? My children?” the soul cried. If souls retained their appearance, even if it was a ghostly one, then Ilios could see the visible concern etched onto the man’s features. “Will they be safe? Astrals, of all the things that would happen--”

“They will be,” said Ilios.

But his reassurance was quickly chased away by a deprecating laugh: “Is that the truth, or is this one of those petty attempts to be optimistic?”

Briefly, Ilios recalled the citizens who ardently rejected Ilios’ visions of their future demise and claimed that it was nothing but the ramblings of a lunatic. Rejection and outrage were responses Ilios had grown accustomed to during his service as a Seer. But now, in the realm of Valhalla, his abilities were rendered null (After all, you can’t predict one’s death when the populace is already dead). Now, people sought honesty from _him,_ not glimpses of their future.

It took a moment for Ilios to respond, “Only the Goddess of Death may ascertain the fate of your family.”

The soul heaved a weary sigh, muttering “Astrals and their vague bullshit” under his breath. Ilios couldn’t blame him; he hardly knew if he was consoling the souls correctly enough for them to let go of what’s chaining them of their rebirth. “Alright, but in the event that they… do not make it, will you promise me that they will live a better life in the next one?”

That’s a question Ilios knew the answer to. “Of course.”

“Thank you,” replied the soul. “Good heavens, what even is happening to Eos right now?”

_“A divine retribution to men who sought to usurp the Astrals of Their Sovereignty_ ,” Etro once answered, for Ilios had asked the same question some time ago. “ _The Infernian’s rage razed your homeland, my Child, and more has yet to come. Eos will know no peace until His pyre be quelled.”_

Ilios was unsure whether he should answer the inquiry. But thankfully, it seemed as though it was more of a self-speculation rather than a directed question. “One more favor, if you will. Please tell my family I love them. That’s all I ask.”

“It will be done,” Ilios affirmed as the soul thanked him once more. The boy watched as the soul drifted to the skies, free from his worries, and joined the stream of wisps to their new destination. Ilios maintained his gaze until he could no longer pinpoint the soul amid the crowd. It’s another soul saved.

With the deed finished, his cool façade slipped from his features, replaced with a tired look. When did socializing become _this_ difficult? A delighted chirp from his left reached his ears, urging Ilios to face an old friend. _“You’re doing great, Ilios!”_

The Seer chuckled at Seraph’s compliment and reached his hand out to pet its white feathers. “Thank you. Although I think that I have to work with some areas. It feels different compared to when I was a Seer.”

“ _Don’t worry, you’ll adjust in no time!_ ” Seraph butted its head against his palm, preening Ilios’ blond hair out of habit. Ilios laughs and playfully swats away the Messenger before it could make a nest of his hair.

There’s a movement in the corner of his eyes. Drawn by its sudden appearance, Ilios shifted his attention away from Seraph and gazed from a distance, where another Messenger—a wolf that was unfamiliar to Ilios— watched them with a cynical stare.

Calculating, observing—no doubt— like a predator to its prey. But in Ilios’ case, a Messenger understanding as to why Her Providence had allowed a living mortal to set foot on the plains of Valhalla. The Messengers bar Seraph gave Ilios a wide berth, and in return, Ilios had done the same. He had yet to gain their trust and respect before he would dare encroach their lands; even if he was taken here by the Goddess of Death herself, it didn’t mean that the true residents of the realm shared the same sentiments. He had to prove his mettle to them. Exactly how? Ilios didn’t know, but he hoped it wasn’t a battle of sheer strength though; he clearly had little experience in that field.

The wolf remained unfazed when Ilios spotted it. It’s only now did the boy felt the weight of the Messenger’s stare— the judgment its glare harbored underneath a collected mask. Did it want something? What was it observing? The more Ilios maintained the eye contact, the more his composure was threatening to break from the underlying pressure. What does it want?

Beside him, Seraph nuzzled its beak on Ilios’ mused hair and cooed, “ _Don’t let Fenrir intimidate you. He will come around eventually.”_

Although Ilios tore his gaze away, Fenrir’s unnerving gaze lingered. The Messenger senses fear, doesn’t it? It’s speculative, sure, but it’s highly likely that it does so. “I hope so. May we visit the shores? I think I need to rest before I converse with another soul.”

“ _Of course,”_ said Seraph. As they turned and sprinted off to the shores on foot, Ilios still felt Fenrir boring its eyes on his back.

There’s still a long way to go before he could hope to live with the other Messengers in peace. 

────────────────────────────────────

_“Your curiosity amuses Me, Child. Ask, and I shall answer.”_

Abashed, Ilios briefly looked away from the empty throne and wrapped his gangly arms around himself. The action was not done because of the frigid temperatures-- no; it was done out of habit. Although time lost its meaning in Valhalla, he had yet to lose his nervousness in the face of Etro. The white robe bestowed upon him by the Goddess of Death provided a comfort that no other clothing Ilios owned could offer. The veil, attached to a feathery headpiece, on the other hand, was a decorative piece that partially concealed his features. Ilios didn’t know why it was there, but it was easier to hide his emotions with it. Simplicity had its charms; either way, Ilios preferred the comfort over vanity.

Taking a deep breath, Ilios asked, “If the world was perfect as it was, then what went wrong?” 

Etro’s laughter rang hollow as her temple. Unnerved, Ilios was all-too-prepared to offer an apology, but his words were silenced by the Goddess’ reassurance: “ _Be at ease, My Child, your inquisitive nature offends Me not. The perfection of all things, the Unity that bonded Astrals and mankind together, was brought down by no other than I.”_

“What did you do?” Ilios gently prodded.

Her answer came with a wistful tone, “ _I fell in love with Him.”_

The boy blinked out of confusion, coaxing a laugh from the deity.

_“Surprised, are you, to know that the Goddess that stands before you had once been human? Had once been in flesh and mingled with man out of the graciousness of His Providence?”_

“But what of the others?”

_“It is only I who willingly took form of man. My Kin consider Me foolish for ‘My dissatisfaction’ of the purpose He bestowed unto Me. But Bhunivelze took little offense to My request and molded Me an image befitting for mankind. Truly it was through His actions and His kindness did I find myself enamored. You need not know the full extent of My longing, Child, but I will tell you this: t’was in that moment I learned and understood pain— the lesser emotion so easily dismissed by the Astrals then and now.”_

────────────────────────────────────

There came a point wherein the souls stopped leaving Valhalla. Even with no sense of time, Ilios could tell that the disaster in the living realm worsened with the sheer number of lives pouring in from the Gates. But now, the normally darkened skies were brighter than before, and it set the Messengers on edge.

Some souls, Ilios noticed, had thrown themselves to the Sea of Chaos. Whether it was done intentionally or not remained unanswered on his end, but he knew that once a something—souls and Messengers alike—was submerged by its waters, there’s no going back. It was the point of no return.

It was chaotic really, as ironic as it sounded. With no destinations and life to begin anew, the souls grew restless and roamed the plains of Valhalla under the supervision of Messengers— the same beings who still maintained a wide berth away from Ilios yet now responded to his acknowledgements with either a quick nod or a greeting.

When asked of the odd circumstances, the Goddess of Death responded in a cryptic manner: _“Until the storm has passed, the souls will remain. For how long, that I have yet to witness.”_

With no means to return to the living realm, Ilios felt the passage of time through the uneasiness of the souls. The same questions echoed for every soul who asked: _when will we leave? What’s going to happen to us? Where’s my children, my family—_

There’s only so many times Ilios could utter the same reassurances over and over again. Then something fell from the skies—corporeal and very much alive. And that being crashed to the plains, its sudden appearance leaving Messengers and souls alike scrambling away from the impact of its fall. 

“What was that?” Ilios asked Seraph as the dusts settled.

The Messenger shook its head. “ _I’m not sure. Let’s go and see.”_

With his curiosity piqued, he and Seraph sprinted off. It was easy to spot the crowd gathering around the site, with the Messengers placing themselves in front of the souls as a shield in case worse comes to worse. Ilios slipped through the curious wisps until he eventually stopped behind Fenrir. The wolf did little to acknowledge his presence, but it stood firm on its ground.

“ _Hop on my back_ ,” Seraph offered when the wolf refused to bulge. Nodding, Ilios climbed on the Messenger, the movement all but smooth as he had rarely rode the chocobo. Still, now he could see a glimpse of the cause of commotion and not the looming figures of the Messengers. Seraph walked to Fenrir’s side, but another step towards the object had elicited a sharp glare from the wolf.

“It’s alright. I can see fine from here.” Ilios quickly said as Seraph retracted her step. The boy’s not sure if Fenrir gave him an approving look.

The object turned out to be… an interesting bird, to say the least. Ilios couldn’t deduce too much since its intricate wings covered most of the figure’s appearance. But from where Ilios stood, he could see a feathered mask and talons poking out behind the wings.

It laid there unmoving. And for a moment, Ilios thought that it was losing its color, too.

“ _Emissary of the Winds,”_ Fenrir suddenly spoke, as if reading the confusion on Ilios. “ _Messenger of the Infernian-- Felled, no doubt, by its Masters.”_

“You mean it’s dead?” Ilios blurted out.

Fenrir huffed. It sounded suspiciously like a sardonic laugh. “ _Messengers do not die, boy. They slumber until their strength is restored. But the Emissary will suffer a different fate.”_

There’s a monochromatic hue that’s slowly taking over the felled Emissary, and Ilios realized that it was no trick of the eye. He’d never seen this type of illness before.

“ _Petrification-- a power of the Archaean,”_ answered Fenrir. _“To mortals, the effect lasts only a moment. But for our kind, it lasts until the Archaean deems it so. It will be centuries—or rather, decades—before the Emissary will see the light of day again.”_

“That’s… harsh,” Ilios commented, retuning his focus back to the Emissary. As more seconds ticked by, it began to resemble a statue more than a demigod. “It won’t cause any trouble here, will it?”

“ _That depends,”_ Fenrir answered in a grim tone. “ _Some retain their powers in such state; others will not. Until then, it’s best to keep your distance. Your fragility makes you weaker here than in your realm.”_

“Right,” Ilios said, drawing the word slowly since the scathing remark was unnecessary. Well, it’s not like he could properly defend himself whenever the Messengers decided to spar against each other from time to time.

When interests on the Emissary waned, some wisps lingered onto the site while others fled back to the skies or to the corners of the plains. Only the Messengers remained steadfast, likely anticipating an attack from the Infernian’s Messenger despite its status. There were the occasional power surges that was emitted from the statue, a strong gush of wind that caused the unbloomed flowers and blades of grass flutter from its wake— it alerted the Messengers, but nothing came after the wind’s sudden appearance.

So, the Emissary was very much alive despite the petrification. Briefly, Ilios wondered how it felt to be trapped in such state. It’s like being buried alive, isn’t it? Whatever it was, he didn’t want to have a personal experience with it.

Then, as sudden as the appearance of the Emissary, a powerful voice that rung in his head boomed: “ _The War between the Astrals had ceased. You may now return to your realm, My Children, and begin your life anew.”_

Ilios looked up to the skies and sure enough, the souls were frantic with movement. From the looks of things, he wasn’t the only one who heard Etro’s message. They moved like the waves of the sea, no doubt ecstatic from the news. At the corner of his eyes, he saw multiple golden lights appear in the sky, a signal of the Gates’ return.

“ _Enter the light of Providence and fulfill the destiny carved upon your rebirth.”_

Almost instantly, the souls entered the Gates like a dew drop falling to a pond. As more souls trickled out from the realm, the muted green skies and grey clouds returned. It was dark again— Ilios wasn’t sure if he preferred brightly-lit skies to the normalcy. Was even Valhalla _this_ dull before?

“ _Thank heavens the war is over,”_ Seraph cooed. “ _I miss the space.”_

He didn’t expect that a Messenger, of all beings, would complain on the overabundance of souls. “That’s what your concerned about?” Ilios teased.

The Messenger butted its head against his. “ _Among other things, of course!”_

Ilios laughed softly, but it turned to a contemplative hum. “Can Eos accommodate this much souls now after the war’s over?”

“ _Maybe,”_ the Messenger answered vaguely. “ _They’ll be fine. The Goddess isn’t mindless enough to simply drop the souls off and leave them to fend for themselves.”_

“Even if they won’t worship her?” Ilios asked, earning a nod from the Messenger.

A beat of silence passed between them. “ _Yes.”_

“Do you think..” He trailed off, biting his lip. “Amara, is she?”

A kind, gentle face popped into mind, followed by equally gentle hands and words that lulled him to slumber on sleepless nights. But then those faint images were replaced with a pool of crimson underneath a body, a droplet falling from a bloodied blade, a daemon posed and ready to take another life with one fell swoop.

He stepped away from his rumination before he could venture deep into that memory. He didn’t remember clenching his fists. “She deserves better.”

Seraph looked at him for a long time before it nudged his head against him once more, gentler this time. “ _You, too, deserve better.”_

────────────────────────────────────

_“The love We shared was different, but akin to the Glacean’s endearment towards the Infernian. It was a bond shared between couples whose souls merged to one.”_

Ilios stood before the throne, his hands clasped in front of him out of decorum. But as if he maintained his composure in front of the goddess, he scarcely resisted the urge to shuffle on the spot.

_“You are confused, are you not? You have not been granted the opportunity to meet your other, nor did you experience the bond shared among brothers-in-arms. You only know of maternal love.”_

Ilios bowed his head. He wasn’t exactly the poster child of camaraderie during his time in the living. The children who were around his age kept their distances from him. He was no stranger to their whispers and rumors, because more than once he overheard them insulting his name and his role in the church.

Well, at one point, he did try to reach out to them first, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience. Because of course he _had_ to approach a thirteen-year-old boy who would die within five days from pneumonia, and of course he had to receive the vision of that boy’s death as soon as Ilios shook his hand.

Ilios warned him at first and told the boy to watch his health before his sickness would worsen within the limited time he had. But his concern fell to deaf ears, including the family—that was, until Ilios’ foresight came to reality.

The number of times the Sisters in the church had to coax Ilios out of his room was staggering. It was from that incident Ilios grew reluctant to befriend people his age. When time had proven that his “peers” feared him, Ilios stopped trying. There’s no point in subjugating himself to more misery when he was already satisfied being alone. He had Seraph either way. The Messenger kept him company for so long; why would it end now?

As for love between partners, well, he only heard of them through the marriage officiants in the church. Besides, Ilios doubted that his partner would enjoy listening to him ramble about what couldn’t be seen in the naked eye. He’d already unnerved the visitors and nobles who frequented the church enough with his ruminations.

“ _One day, Child, you shall witness these for yourself. You shall whole-heartedly embrace the love of your family, cherish the camaraderie shared between those who will stand beside you, and treasure the one who will see you as his equal, his light, and his world. All these you will nurture, just as You have tended the hellflowers with adoration, gentleness, and reverence. They shall embrace you for who you are—not as a Seer, but as yourself. Trials and tribulations these bonds shall undergo. But should you hold onto these, they will persist until death do them part.”_

Her promise sounded like a far-fetched dream. Would he really meet someone who would embrace his flaws? A circle of friends who wouldn’t bat an eyelash over his supposed quirkiness? A family that would raise him as one of their own?

He hoped so.

────────────────────────────────────

Ilios didn’t know how long it’s been since the war between the Hexatheon, but he knew it’s been long enough for him to realize that the souls spoke a different language. He met only a handful who used his vernacular, but beyond that, they spoke in a foreign gibberish. For once, Ilios felt alone. Alienated from his kind in the living realm and in Valhalla.

He was human. But unlike the others, he remained in Valhalla. For how long? He didn’t know. Etro remained quiet on when he could return to Eos. Although the rest of the Messengers had now grown accustomed to his presence after all these times, they still consider him as an oddity. So really, what was he? What was he even doing here? He’s supposed to be dead, wasn’t he? Felled by the same daemon who took Amara’s life. But no-- he’s here, dallying in the fields of Valhalla where he would spend an eternity mindlessly roaming around with no clear goal nor purpose.

Admittedly, he was bored—lonely even, and daresay lost.

It’s no wonder why Seraph kept giving him concerned looks nor why Etro, a constant presence wherever he went, seemed to fill in the silence more so than usual.

A soul approached him during his trance and asked a question in a language Ilios didn’t understand. But the boy hid his confusion with a polite smile and instead led the soul to a Messenger who could properly commune with it.

This was his role now apparently. For once, Ilios wasn’t sure if he enjoyed it.

A man in tattered and tainted clothes appeared in the temple of Etro.

Not as a wisp of light, the very form of the soul, but a man— a living, breathing human.

Ilios ran and knelt beside the unconscious man sprawled on the ground. He noticed that the stains in the man’s tunic were black as night, a darker shade than his hair. It wasn’t blood, but it was viscous like one. It wasn’t ink either; ink didn’t smell, right?

Whatever it was, Ilios reached out his hand to search for a pulse. But before his fingertip could brush against the man’s skin, shadowy tendrils, accompanied by gold lines, emerged from the ground and jerked Ilios’ arm away.

_“He is tainted,”_ Etro’s voice rang, just as the shadows retreated to wherever it came from at Etro’s behest, _“with a parasite created by the Six. Be cautious, Child. Even the most omnipotent of deities could fall prey to this malady.”_

“A parasite?” Ilios repeated as he peered closer at the man’s rugged features. He didn’t see anything strange. “What’s going on in Eos?”

Etro remained quiet for a moment. “ _I do not know, Child. The Hexatheon shapes the land as They see fit, that much I am certain.”_

Ilios frowned. “Is it curable?”

_“No, but I can only tame it.”_ answered Etro. “ _The Starscourge possesses little chaos to fully manipulate; the rest of its composition is of the Astrals’ making. This man will not be rid of the malady. The only consolation I can provide is a respite for both him and the darkness that resides within him.”_

“How can I help?”

“ _Remain at his side and be his companion. He will need your assistance when he awakens.”_

A task from the Goddess. How long had it been since he was given an order? Ilios stood, not bothering to straighten the creases of his robes, and faced the empty throne. With a determined look, he sealed his words: “It will be done.”

The man woke after Ilios finished exploring the entirety of Valhalla twice with Seraph. He was disoriented in his movement at first, sluggish after a respectable amount of time spent unconscious. But when his vision cleared and his head stopped pounding, that’s when the man gained a sense of clarity. That’s when he started to realize that his hands weren’t chained, that his feet were touching the stone-cold tiles, and that there was a floating empty throne which stood before him.

“You’re awake,” Ilios said, earning the attention of the raven-haired man.

The man opened his mouth, but a dry cough escaped past his lips. Ilios winced at the scratchy sounds out of sympathy. Even if it was a lifetime ago, he remembered how painful it was to deal with a cough as dry as the man’s. Amara would’ve handed him a glass of water to remedy it. But seeing that there’s nothing of the sorts, all Ilios could provide was an awkward pat on the back to coax out the worst of the coughs.

Thankfully, Seraph knew how to handle the situation better than he could. The Messenger casted a healing spell to the man. Just like that, the coughs lessened until the man was able to breathe. As Ilios pulled his hand away, he asked, “Do you feel better?”

The man thanked them in a foreign language, to which Seraph responded with a chirp.

Great. Just great.

Ilios looked at Seraph and hoped that he conveyed his despair well enough for the Messenger to catch his meaning. Thankfully, Seraph caught on: _“I’ll translate for you. Don’t worry!”_

The man cleared his throat. He looked around, uncertainty making itself clear onto his worn features, as his gaze eventually landed back to them. Again, he spoke. Ilios shifted his attention to Seraph instead. _“He asked where are we. I told him we’re in Valhalla.”_

“What language does he speak?” Ilios blurted out of curiosity, unfortunately earning the attention of the stranger. The man seemed taken back by Ilios’ words as well. They didn’t understand each other, did they? Well, at least Ilios wasn’t alone.

“ _He speaks Lucian,”_ answered Seraph. _“It’s the current universal language of Eos.”_

“It sounds different than Solheian,” continued Ilios.

“ _That’s because Lucian is the language bestowed by the Bladekeeper. The Astrals deemed it fit to exile the Infernian and His language after the Transgression.”_ So, just like that, his home, culture, and its people were gone. He didn’t know whether he should laugh at the bizarreness of it all or mourn for a land he had never seen since eternity. _“I’m sorry, Ilios_. _There’s a lot of things changing now that Eos is recovering._ ”

“Right, of course,” Ilios brushed off the Messenger’s concern and gave the confused stranger an apologetic smile. He needed to find a means of communication with this man; otherwise, he’d fail his task. He could do this. This is miles better than dealing with aristocrats who would verbally shag him for his foresight.

Learning a language shouldn’t pose a problem, right?

Right.

The presence of the Infernian’s Messenger made Valhalla more animated. The wind surges pulsating from the petrified Emissary urged the greenery (that weren’t even _that_ green to begin with) to dance. Occasionally, his hair would flutter along, as well as Seraph’s white plumage and Fenrir’s fur. It’s a welcoming change, if Ilios could say so himself. And it was perfect place to unwind and conduct the mandatory language lessons such as now.

“My name is Ilios,” the boy slowly recited in Lucian, continuing despite his obvious struggle. The man smiled at his progress, and Seraph’s feathers puffed from excitement. “And I hail from Solhe— _Solheim_.”

“Well done,” the man—Ardyn, as Seraph helpfully translated during their earlier encounter-- complimented with that weary smile of his. Ilios wondered if the man had seen too much in his lifetime to gain that smile. His eyes held a depth that rivaled the High Priestess back home, but his hunched shoulders said that this man bore a weight. The curiosity as to why this man was here, alive and in the flesh just like Ilios, hadn’t fade. But the man held his secrets close, and Ilios respected his wish.

He had all the time in Valhalla to fulfill his task, to befriend the man who was supposedly inflicted with the Starcourge. As for Ardyn, well, it would certainly take a while for him to adapt to the change of scenery. It’s not everyday someone, much less in the flesh, gets whisked from a bright, vivid world to a motionless, bland realm.

This time, the man spoke in Ilios’ dialect. Like the boy, Ardyn stumbled on the difficult pronunciations. “I am Ardyn of House Caelum. I hail from Lucis.”

Ilios grinned. “Nice!”

The man returned the smile and sighed, mumbling something under his breath. Seraph caught it thankfully and translated, “ _He says that your language is difficult.”_

The boy pouted. “So is his.”

Seraph squawked at his jab before turning its attention to Ardyn. Assuming with how the man smirked, the Messenger must’ve ratted him out. What a tattletale of a chocobo.

“ _No matter the difficulty,”_ Seraph addresses them, its eyes mirthful. “ _You have more than enough time to master each other’s languages. Before you know it, you’ll be holding conversation for hours!”_

And maybe he could ask Ardyn everything in the living realm— how little of Solheim remained and how Lucis looked like. Or maybe if the sky was still a nice shade of blue and the clouds were puffier than normal. He could also ask about the stars, or about the way the Lucians dressed themselves because Ardyn’s clothes were simplistic. It looked like the ones the neighborhood donned, the type of garments the rich mocked and labeled as servant clothes. But all other little details about Ardyn— from the way he spoke, conducted himself, and the manners and decorum he exercised-- screamed otherwise. Who was he before he was inflicted with the Scourge? Who made him so… sad?

Until then, they would make do with Seraph’s help. The Messenger’s helpful when it came to providing more information on something that Ilios hadn’t ever heard before. For instance, the new calendar that had twelve months, the new machination that told the time of the day and night, or _hanging_. Seraph wouldn’t elaborate on the last part, but it did explain that it’s a method used to kill someone via suffocation.

In general, Lucians were innovative. But for some reasons, unless Ardyn hadn’t outright stated it just yet, there were no machines? At best, the one device that would be considered as such was the invention of the wheel that brought forth wells and carriages. Speaking of transportation, chocobos were a thing now. Ardyn described them by pointing at Seraph and saying, “Yellow is the common color associated with these feathered creatures. But black is the rarest of them all and thereby used as a symbol for a higher social status. I’ve never seen a white one, but it is truly fitting for a Messenger to appear as a paragon of purity and divinity.”

It’s a lengthy explanation if Ilios had ever heard one, almost like a sermon back in the church. But Ilios was sure that it only took three breaths for Ardyn to say those words in his mother tongue. Still though, chocobos like Seraph in the real world? Not levitating vehicles or mechs that run on the Infernian’s flames? Are they intelligent, sentient, and adorable like Seraph? He hoped so. He can’t wait to hear more about them.

“ _Hello? Is anyone there?”_ Seraph called, pulling Ilios away from his thoughts. Both the Messenger and Ardyn were looking at him with concern—great, he accidentally made them worry.

Immediately, Ardyn spoke in an apologetic tone, and Seraph translated, “ _He says that he’s sorry if he isn’t that great of an educator. It’s been a while since he imparted his knowledge to children.”_

Guilty, Ilios frantically waved his hands to make up for his mistake, his apology spilling out in a rush, “No, no, it’s fine! I was thinking about what we could talk about after we’re fluent in our languages!”

Waiting for Seraph to translate was nerve-wracking. He didn’t even bother suppressing his habit to bite his lower lip until Ardyn relaxed. He spoke again, his tone lighter than it was not too long ago. “ _He says that he understands. He’s also interested in learning more about your culture and everything about Solheim.”_

With a delighted glint in his eyes, Ilios looked at Ardyn. “Really? You want to know more about my home?”

Ardyn laughed. It was a nice sound. Anything’s better than silence. “ _He does.”_

“Alright, as soon as we’re able, we’ll talk about everything!” Ilios announced enthusiastically.

Seraph cooed and shared his excitement. Ardyn, on the other hand, gazed at them with a wistful smile.

────────────────────────────────────

_“Not all beings were in favor of My bond with Bhunivelze, and I was naïve to think otherwise. I was blinded by its brilliance that I failed to see the consequences of My desire. Slowly, I became fallible in the eyes of the Astrals. As I embraced humanity, my decisions brought ire to the Divines._

_Envious was Radiant Lindzei, who harbored an animosity that unsettled the land and sowed disorder among Our Creations. Aggravated was Hallowed Pulse for my corruption of the Creator. Together, they conspired against Our Union. But it was Lindzei who plunged her sword to My heart, who called Me a fool for the preposterousness of My actions. And it was Pulse who stood witness to My demise._

_My Death altered Him in ways that sundered the Astrals. His benevolence had vanquished like smoke, replaced by a vengeance that forever shifted fate and brought forth a ruthless equilibrium. He banished the Architects and remolded their bodies. No plead and apology would cease His torture. With their Divinity and Purpose stripped away, Fell Lindzei became the sun, and Pulse the moon. No longer do They walk among Us, nor do They possess sentience. Though Their Names be mocked by the Six, Their Fall served as a warning to Those who dare defy the All Father._

_He mourned My passing and wrought bane to His creations. He once made a copy of My image, but He destroyed it as soon as it opened its eyes. Woe to He who could not see souls, who could not see My presence amid His anguish. Instead, His grief led Him to create this realm, in the hopes that it would reunite My soul back to its rightful vessel. He created the replica of the fields we’ve traversed, of the shores that orchestrated songs, of a sanctuary that promised safety and warmth. But all these deeds were for naught, and through it all, I watched His descent to insanity._

_I watched Him lost hope. I saw His convictions crumbled before My very eyes, and I could do nothing to rectify it. I watched him descend to the depths of the Seas, to the place where I could not follow at my state. And for many a millennium, silence became the song of Valhalla. At that very Sea of Chaos rested a slumbering God who even I could not awaken._

_And so, from the absence of the Creator and the Architects, the reign of the Six-- or what you now call as the Hexatheon-- have begun.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha fuck


	4. Nobody Knows Who I Am (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manifesting a headache upon hearing that dreadful pet name, Verstael groaned as he rubbed his temple, “Why on Eos do I bother with you?”
> 
> “Because, dear friend, I am indispensable.” Which is sadly an infuriating fact. No one had withstood the test of the plasmodium’s might except for the Chancellor. “And I am, as you would like to say before you developed the habit to drown in your work, hot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: I'm not sure if Ardyn and Verstael's interaction qualifies as ship-worthy content. I mean Ardyn pretty much does everything to spite Verstael so-- 
> 
> Title for this chapter is from Echos' _Gold._

Ardyn was supposed to be king. That’s what the Crystal foretold, hadn’t it? Before Somnus usurped his rightful throne, before his brother plunged his sword onto Aera’s side, Ardyn was to inherit the throne just as his father had done before him. But instead of a prosperous ending that would’ve been the pinnacle of his life, the Crystal and his people spat at his feet. Suddenly, his selfless deeds that aided the ill-stricken populace were brushed aside when they saw the Scourge taking its toll on his body. Suddenly, he became a monster.

Even now, as he traversed the plains of Valhalla with a boy far older than he appeared to be, Ardyn would ask himself: what went wrong? Why would the gods lie of his ascension? Why did Somnus have to kill Aera?

Aera, his fiancé, killed for intercepting a blow that was meant for him. Was that part of the Astrals’ grand scheme as well? Looking back at it now after who-knows-how-long, hardly anything made sense. Once, he had asked Etro if he could meet Aera now that they were here. But the Goddess merely responded with a melancholic sigh: “ _Forgive Me. But the souls of the Nox Fleuret and the Lucis Caelum are not Mine to have.”_

“What do you mean ‘not yours to have’?” He raised in return.

“ _The Hexatheon have laid claim on their destinies, including yours,”_ She clarified, Her voice soft and sympathetic just as it’s always been whenever they conversed.

Defeated, Ardyn said, “Tell me this: do Astrals lie?”

He didn’t even need to imagine Her physical image to sense Her pensive silence. “ _To lie is to ruin a facet of Our Sovereignty. To lie goes against Our Nature as Gods and Goddesses, and render Us fallible in the Eyes of the Sleeping Father.”_

His thoughts raced back to the throne room, the beginning of an unexpected tragedy. Betrayed right before the eyes of the people when the promise of his ascension had already been uttered and heard by his kin, was that part of the grander scheme of things then? He bit back a deprecating laugh. He’d never imagine that the Astrals, the very deities whom he revered and worshipped praises to, were cruel. If he had the chance to talk to his past, his younger, naïve self would have laughed at his words, would have dismissed his younger brother’s jealousy with a smile and an idiom.

But then he would look at the boy, whose features reminded him of Aera’s. Ilios suffered, too, hadn’t he? Back in the forgotten city scholars searched for, even if it was now careening towards a legend rather than another page of history. The Seer smiled and chattered and laughed like a chipper songbird at the crack of dawn, yet amid the boy’s liveliness, Ardyn saw the tell-tale signs of loneliness should he pretend his attention was caught elsewhere. 

They were both here in Valhalla for reasons unknown. It’s the only question Etro had answered vaguely when asked. Until the time came where Ardyn would return to the living realm, he would keep the boy company.

The time of his return was announced in an unexpected manner. While he and Ilios speculated why the flowers in the field remained folded, Etro called them back to the Temple. Curious, they ventured their way to the familiar chambers and found a small fennec-like Messenger before the empty throne.

“I admit that I don’t know who that is,” Ilios whispered in Lucian. 

Unlike Ilios, Ardyn knew who it was. “Its name is Carbuncle, Messenger of Bahamuth.”

The boy darted him an interested look. “You know it?” 

“Indeed,” Ardyn answered. “Bahamuth is the insignia of House Caelum. My family had dedicated their studies to the Draconian and, by extension, its Messenger.”

“So your family are Bahamuth’s faithful?”

“In a sense.” He thought about the prominence of black in his family, ranging from something as simple as clothing to their custom-made blades. He wondered how his Rakshasa Blade’s faring in his absence. Don’t suppose his brother had any decency to spare and kept it secured within the vaults alongside their grandfathers? It’s a pity to even imagine his weapon gathering dust. That blade had served him well in his travels. 

“Step forward, My Children.” Etro ushered, breaking their conversation. As they stepped closer until they’ve reached a reasonable distance, Carbuncle turned and greeted them with a slight dip of its head, a gesture to which they returned. Formalities aside, Etro declared, “Speak, Messenger of Bahamuth. Inform them of the words spoken by thy Master.”

“The Draconian requests the return of Adagium, so that the prophecy as written by the stars, may be set in place,” said Carbuncle.

To Ardyn’s left, Ilios softly repeated _adagium_ , his confusion evident with how he slowly mouthed the word. Ardyn barely caught wind of it however as the Messenger had his attention.

So, the Astrals deemed him as a pawn for whatever it is They had in mind. After all he’d done in Their name, this were his reward— a kingdom that had forgotten his existence, Aera’s life, and a Scourge that whispered to the conscience that sought revenge. And now, They gave another: a name that wasn’t his and a role in some obscure destiny.

Call it intuition, but Ardyn suspected that he wouldn’t praise the Astrals for pulling this particular stunt once the big picture came to light. “What if I refuse?”

As if expecting the response, Carbuncle returned, morose, “Unfortunately, you can’t. The words of the Draconian are absolute. The world abides by His Order.”

Etro laughed. It’s a reaction that took them, including the Messenger, off guard, solely because it’s unexpected coming from a composed deity. Ardyn never heard of a sharp-edged laugh from the Goddess before, and based on Ilios’ shocked expression, neither had he. “What nerve the Draconian has to incorporate a commandment of Bhunivelze as if it were his?”

Carbuncle squeaked, “I’m sorry. I mean no offense to the Creator’s Bride. I only seek to serve my Master’s command.”

“ _How disappointed Lindzei would be if She were to stand witness of this spectacle,”_ Etro lamented, switching to Her language momentarily. No one, not even Carbuncle, looked like they had recovered from the Goddess’ outburst. Well, pissing off Death Incarnate was never really a good idea to begin with. There were better ways to tempt death, Ardyn could say this much, and this wasn’t one of them. “Ardyn of House Caelum, by your word, My answer shall be based.”

“Ardyn,” Ilios murmured, earning the man’s attention. Despite his calm words, the boy looked shakened. “You don’t have to do this. You can stay here and forget about the prophecy.”

“I know,” answered Ardyn, resolute. Ilios didn’t have to point that out, but it was the thought that counted. At least there were some people who cared for his well-being despite his affliction with the Scourge.

When he looked back to Carbuncle, the jewel attached to its forehead glowed. As the red gemstone glimmered, an unfathomable heaviness settled within the chamber— an ambience not emitted by the Goddess Herself. His body tensed, instincts urging him to draw his blade and keep his guard up. Then as the summoned weight loomed over them menacingly, Carbuncle spoke in a voice that wasn’t its own. “The God of War speaks. Should the Accursed refuse to accept his role, the line of the Nox Fleuret would forever be forfeited to the Six.”

“Aera.” The name fell off his lips before he could control himself.

Whether or not Bahamuth heard him, the Draconian gave no indication and resumed, “Once again, the Hexatheon demands the return of the Accursed to the mortal realm.” 

Silence replaced the Draconian’s sudden proclamation thereafter. When Bahamuth’s presence faded and the Messenger returned to its neutral state, Ardyn closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. It’s funny how Bahamuth was confident enough to make his appearance and leave just as quickly as he had arrived. It’s funny how Ardyn thought that the autonomy he gained and developed in Valhalla was enough for him to not bow down to the Astrals’ whims. But here he was, once again reminded that his life was already pre-destined before he had his say. 

Ardyn couldn’t bear to look at Ilios now, but he had to make his choice-- one way or another. “I have to do it. I have to— for her.”

“I…” The boy paused. The silence was unnerving, but by the mercy of Etro it ended with a subdued sigh. “I understand.”

This time, it’s Etro who inquired in Her language, “ _Are you certain?”_

He spared a glance to the boy, who gave him a meek albeit downcast smile. Years of companionship taught him how Ilios truly answered behind his supportive smiles, how those little details provided an answer that was easily concealed with a boyish grin. Ardyn returned the smile. He hoped his reassurance was enough to allay the boy’s worries.

He looked at the empty throne next and nodded his affirmation. “I am.”

“So shall it be,” declared Etro. Ardyn doubted the thin layer of disappointment was a figment of his imagination.

“If it pleases the Goddess, I’ll escort Adagium to the realm.” Carbuncle offered.

Just as Etro had given Her approval, Ilios prompted, looking frantically between the deities and Ardyn. “Do you have to go now?”

“I’m afraid so,” Ardyn sighed. “I suspect the Astrals would not be patient after all these years of eluding them.”

“I can attest to that,” Carbuncle chimed.

“I see,” Ilios trailed off, a frown settling in. Sadness didn’t fit the boy. That, or perhaps Ardyn had grown accustomed to seeing him so carefree. “So, I guess this is goodbye?”

“As much as I’d hate to admit it, indeed it is.”

“Well.” Biting his lips, Ilios continued, “Thank you for being my friend, or for just dealing with me for a long time.”

Ardyn chuckled. “I assure you that your company is one I shall remember.”

Flustered, Ilios laughed and briefly glanced away from him. He fiddled with his thumbs and continued, “Please take care of yourself out there?”

“I will. In return, I ask that you do try not to trip so often while you run.”

“That’s uncalled for.” Ardyn huffed a laughter before sending one last smile to the boy. He hoped that Ilios won’t grow too lonely once he set off or at least found others who could keep up with his energy. Ilios mirrored the smile, a little more genuine this time—more wistful rather than a faked one. Anything was better than a feigned smile when it came to him.

Ardyn turned to Carbuncle and said, “I’m ready.”

Nodding, the Messenger bowed to the throne before leading Ardyn away from the throne room, away from the ones who had kept him company throughout his time in Valhalla. He’d never thought he would consider an empty realm as his home. It’s odd really, how he once considered the area as an odd one. But in time, he’d learn to appreciate its stillness and tranquility— two of which he wouldn’t experience once he set foot on Eos again. Whatever the Astrals had planned, Ardyn wagered it would require strategy on his part.

For Ifrit’s sake, he hadn’t even left Valhalla yet and here he was, stressing over what’s to come.

He stopped when the Messenger, who’s a few steps ahead of him, paused in its track and turned to face him. “It’ll be better if you close your eyes.”

“Destiny awaits,” Ardyn muttered under his breath. As the Messenger’s magic embraced him, a wave of calmness settled onto his soul. Although the last visage of the realm he saw was the souls illuminating muted skies, the last sounds he heard were that of the Goddess’ voice.

“ _This is to be heard for your ears only. The Scourge forged by the Astrals are created with a minuscule essence of chaos. It is through that substance that I am able to quiet the daemons you harbor. But it is through your steadfastness that the daemons listened to My command. The darkness you carry has a life of its own. Learn to harness its powers and they shall treat you as their king. Master it, and you shall have a power rivaling that of the Astrals’._

_I know not the path that lies before you, neither do I know not the prophecy ordained by the Bladekeeper. But know that I am here always, and you have My blessing. Until we meet again, O Fallen King.”_

The shackles on his wrist were cold as the wind. His throat felt dry and his stomach rumbled for sustenance. Although he couldn’t feel his feet, he knew that he wasn’t touching the ground at the very least. Astrals, it was freezing in here.

Ardyn attempted to open his eyes, but his body was unresponsive for so long that it refused to obey even the simplest command. He tried to flex his fingers instead, but the process ended the same way. Unsurprising given his absence for gods-only-know-how-long. But he heard the tell-tale sounds of rough footsteps and mumbled gibberish, and crashing waves of the sea as well. For a moment there, he thought he was back in Valhalla, and that he merely dreamt Carbuncle’s appearance.

He played with that thought until a light shined onto his eyelids. Even with his sluggish reactions, his eyes still squinted at the brightness. He thanked Etro that he gave up on trying to open his eyes; otherwise, he’d be blinded by this blasted thing as soon as he awakened.

The voice spoke again, and it wasn’t Ilios or Etro or any Messengers he’d acquainted. It spoke in a dialect Ardyn couldn’t comprehend. But based on its tone, whoever this is was fascinated or jubilant at the very least. It’s a far cry from Ilios’ bright enthusiasm no doubt, yet this one’s more contained and controlled.

More footsteps followed suit, and then that voice barked what seemed to be orders.

As the voice rattled on, Ardyn slipped back to unconsciousness.

────────────────────────────────────

The facility offered a tranquility Verstael appreciated, mainly because he wouldn’t have his attention diverted away due to unnecessary noises. Here in his office, his only haven that provided more comfort than his home could, the only sounds he heard were that of the machines whirring and the newborn infants’ cries. While he was not particularly fond of a baby’s noise, today he would gladly make an exception. Those were his products after all, created with his genes and later to be daemonified to augment existing capabilities.

In a way, those infants secured within their respective pods were his children. But he didn’t particularly like the idea of raising them like they were kids unless the experiments deemed it relevant. Humans were complex test subjects, more so when it involved psychological aspects that could affect the controllability of daemons.

He flipped his worn journal open and briefly skimmed through the notes he’d written yesterday. His excitement had shown itself on the way he anticipated the upcoming batch born today and on the possible faults that manifested from the previous trials: heart defects, malformed organs, incomplete development, and the likes. Such errors had prevented the infants to completely mature and die within several months. This time, however, Verstael was certain that he had corrected these flaws and given extra care in modifying his DNA. 

He peeked at the batch in their storage units. So far, not one had died six hours after birth. Should the number of deaths remain empty, then Verstael would consider this batch a success. Satisfied, he looked back at his notebook, picked up a pen, and wrote on the next empty page, _Research log: Year 735, Day 305._

Just as he finished the last stroke on _5_ , the doors slid open, signaling the entrance of one peculiar visitor. “Verstael dearest, have you seen my hat?”

The man sighed but made no attempts to spare a glance at the pompous visitor. Still fixated in writing his log, Verstael reprimanded, “If you would stop treating the MTs as mannequins, then perhaps you would have no need to ask asinine questions and disrupt me of my work.”

Ardyn Izunia, the fabled Adagium whose power rivaled the Astrals themselves, tutted at Verstael’s scathing remark. “My, my, I’m wounded by your words! After all we’ve been through together—the drama, the magnificent feat that is our espionage, and the collaboration of Eos’ greatest minds— you would treat me in such hurtful manner?”

Verstael preferred Ardyn’s demeanor before the man had corrupted the Infernian, mostly because he spoke candidly and bluntly, even when he was morose by whatever it was that plagued him. There’s not a word wasted on that man. But now, with the Scourge at his command, Ardyn was different. He was sinister and cunning, suggesting methods that once threatened Verstael’s morality. Regardless, he had his merits and he knew first-hand of how to weaponize the Starscourge.

Truly, meeting Ardyn had led Verstael to greater heights within the scientific field— ethics and moral codes be damned; hell, Niflheim’s military force would have remained stagnant were it not for his contributions. His promotion to Chancellor was well-earned. All in all however, the only downside of having Ardyn as one of the Empire’s greatest assets was having to deal with the man’s flamboyant eccentricity and theatrics.

Where the Chancellor developed those antics was beyond Vertstael’s understanding. But years of working alongside with the man had taught him not to underestimate the man’s charisma, so Verstael dismissed his curiosity. Instead he wondered how long would it take to develop an immunity for one Ardyn Izunia.

“I will properly extend my hospitality if and only if you don’t call me any more pet names,” Verstael deadpanned.

“Duly noted,” Ardyn said sarcastically. He didn’t say anything more than that. Verstael assumes that, judging on the footsteps, the Chancellor had taken interests on the infants. “Ah, so these are the recent little fellows. Still ever-so-identical to their father.”

“Indeed, and once again I highly suggest you don’t disturb their rest,” warned the chief researcher. “May I ask the purpose of your visit? Or have you come to grumble about whatever trivial matters had ticked you off?”

Ardyn scoffed, feigning offense. “You speak as if I have done nothing but disrupt you from your work.”

Wasn’t that what he’s doing now? Wasting air and unnecessarily filling in the silence and thereby risking the chance of waking the infants from their slumber? Joy of joys, indeed.

“But I come to see your progress nonetheless, under the behest of His Eminence.” And there it was— what should’ve been stated minutes ago now floating in the air.

“Very well.” Reporting his works was simple enough of a task. He first summarized his findings a week ago, objectively highlighting the faults of the previous batch of infants within their genes. Those with health defects had succumbed to death in no less than a day, and those who were perfectly healthy proved to be weak when injected with a dosage of the plasmodium. It’s thereby extrapolated that an infant’s immune system was too underdeveloped to adjust, let alone combat, a foreign substance that could hypothetically heal the physical disabilities as demonstrated by his previous test subjects.

At some point, he had forgone his notes and briefly reported the experiments he had done this week, including the preparations of the daemon-infused magitek armor that the Chancellor himself airily proposed. It was far more advance that simply building and mechanizing the MT units; no, this project was a colossal one, requiring materials and essences that threatened to empty the research funds. And if Ardyn is to be believed, that of which Verstael had no qualms with given his contributions, then this project would possess immeasurable power. It would be the Empire’s ultimate weapon.

It’s for the glory of the Empire did Verstael achieve his works. But with all the utilities he had at his disposal, he must heighten his visions. He must achieve the impossible. However, unless his clones functioned as desired by the Imperial Defense Council, his personal agendas were left postponed.

When he turned away from his desk to face the Chancellor, Verstael confronted an odd sight. Standing beside one storage unit, Ardyn cradled a clone in his arms, eerily gentle with the baby. By all means, any curiosity the Chancellor had in regards to the infants had long dissipated come the second batch; the man scrutinized them with avid interest, but that wasn’t what Verstael was seeing now. There’s a look on his face Verstael hadn’t encountered before— so uncannily grim albeit surprised. It was as if Ardyn’s theatrical persona had dropped when he held the swaddled infant and caressed its cheek. From where Verstael stood, he could faintly hear a giggle escaping from the baby.

To say that Verstael wasn’t curious by the change of demeanor was somewhat a lie. Well, as a scientist, he would be annoyed that the Chancellor had once again disregarded his warnings not to rouse the subjects and sauntered in his work space as if It were _his_ office. But as an acquaintance— troubling as it was to admit it— there’s hardly a thing nowadays that fully unguarded the façade Ardyn wore on a daily basis. Astrals, he didn’t even appear to be listening to Verstael’s report despite his orders.

He saw the infant’s minuscule hand reach out to hold Ardyn’s burgundy hair, to which the Chancellor gently swatted away when the tugging became insistent and frankly painful. This was certainly a surprise.

“I see you’re rather taken with the specimen,” Verstael commented once he had observed enough. The Chancellor blinked and stared back at the researcher, as if he had remembered that he wasn’t alone. Odd how Verstael could read his movements now, as opposed to whatever unpredictable antics Ardyn pulled out of his sleeves. Vertael saw how Ardyn held the infant closer to him, and it did little to fan away his curiosity. Exactly what had made the Chancellor so invested to the child?

The charismatic mask slipped back onto Ardyn’s features, the traces of sobriety disappearing within a blink of an eyelash. “The adorable little thing was awake. It would be a shame not to entertain him before you lead him to his miserable death.”

“I can reassure you that this batch would be successful. I estimate that only 10% of the sample populace would be defective health-wise,” Verstael corrected. The infant laid comfortably on Ardyn’s arms, thankfully not loud enough to awaken the others. It cooed, no doubt desiring the attention of the Chancellor. “But I cannot guarantee that the one you’re holding will be exempted from that ten percent.”

“Which is why it falls unto me to amuse this little light.”

“Apologies, I haven’t realized you’ve signed up as a clown, not as a politician.” Verstael airly sniped.

“There’s a difference? I haven’t realized that either, dearest.”

Manifesting a headache upon hearing that dreadful pet name, Verstael groaned as he rubbed his temple, “Why on Eos do I bother with you?”

“Because, dear friend, I am indispensable.” Which is sadly an infuriating fact. No one had withstood the test of the plasmodium’s might except for the Chancellor. “And I am, as you would like to say before you developed the habit to drown in your work, hot.”

No. Just. No.

“Please return the specimen and leave my office.” Verstael said through gritted teeth.

Of course, it wasn’t that easy to dispose Ardyn. No, he had the audacity to taunt, “But what of His Radiance’s request?”

“Tell the Emperor that the production of the MT units shall see an increase of numbers should my current experiment goes swimmingly,” Verstael finalized. “Now, get out.”

“Of course. I wish you a productive evening, Doctor.” Smirking, Ardyn tipped his fedora and, with a flourish of his coat, made his way to the exit.

“Leave the infant!” Verstael barked. Absolutely not a single one of his specimens shall be absconded by infuriating yet highly intellectual buffoons. As Ardyn exaggerated his sigh and apparent disappointment, he returned the giggling infant back to its pod, the gentle albeit subtle movements once again making themselves known.

Ardyn muttered phrases that were too soft for Verstael to hear and finally took his leave, but not without a sending Verstael a grin. The Chancellor would be back in a day or so, that much was guaranteed whenever he sent that certain signal. The infant’s giggle died down, replaced by a whimper. It was no doubt aware that Ardyn had left, and the noises it made were growing louder when the man hadn’t returned.

Cursing under his breath, Verstael rushed to its side and endeavored his best to console the infant. It flinched at his appearance, surprised by the fact that it called the wrong person. It whined loud enough to rouse the others, and Verstael efforts increased tenfold. He did not want to deal with a room of these ungodly banshees shrieking their hearts out. One of them already had him exerting more energy than he liked.

Thankfully, the infant’s cries lessened for every comforting murmur and caress. He kept his pace until it stopped. Placated, his clone met his tired eyes and cooed, but not in the way it did with Ardyn. This time it was more controlled, like a formal greeting rather an excited one.

It’s odd. Did it, by some chance, recognize Ardyn? Perhaps the Chancellor had visited when Verstael was attending his business elsewhere? Or perhaps it was merely excited upon seeing the first person it laid eyes on. Similarly, what had it done to pique Ardyn’s interest? It had a tuft of blonde hair, blue eyes, and pale skin— all inherited by himself; it had no unique features that rendered it as a defect. It was as it was: a simple infant, waiting to be subjugated with plasmodium and be instated as an MT unit. 

There were too many variables to consider, but little results to answer such question. There was something amiss that Ardyn identified but escaped the likes of him. Whatever trait this infant possessed had brought out a personality in the Chancellor that Verstael scarcely saw, even if he locked himself in the facility most of the time. No other specimens the Chancellor previously interacted produced similar results, nor do they behave as oddly as this one.

But what could it be? What was it that he wasn’t seeing?

Frowning, Verstael held up its wrist and memorized the number embedded on pale skin.

N-iP0135. Unit number 05953234.

This one would require more scrutiny than others. Whatever it was that he had witnessed, Verstael intended to uncover the mystery.

────────────────────────────────────

Two weeks had passed, and no infant had died from any pressing health concerns. They were all healthy albeit obnoxious, marking his success in manufacturing MT units via his genes. Yet still he couldn’t fantom the oddity that is Unit number 05953234. No matter how inconspicuous the Chancellor may be in his movements, Ardyn would always be drawn back to the infant, and the specimen, in turn, would attain a jovial behavior— an unnecessary trait to be developed in the project.

Ardyn, for the better word, had consistently dismissed and brushed aside his questions whenever prompted. It’s a frustrating exchange that yielded no positive results or answers to the predicament; instead, it only gave Verstael more of a headache than a theory. As frustrating as it was to be left out of the dark, time was of essence. The Emperor demanded a fortification and a swift mass production of the MT units to begin seizing neighboring territories. Unfortunately, given that it was an imperative order, Verstael had no choice but to direct his focus elsewhere.

But of course, not all things went according to plan.

He heard the rushed footsteps behind the door first before his subordinates properly made himself known, “Sir, you need to see this.”

“What is it?” gravely asked Verstael, turning to face the one of the scientists he had assign to conduct a medical examination on the infants.

“It’s 3234.” That got his utmost attention.

“Report,” said Verstael.

The scientist stepped beside Verstael to provide him a clear view of the tablet that depicted a video of the said subject. “3234 has a stable health condition, no physical or mental abnormalities. But as you can see here—”

The subordinate tapped the screen, and the video played. Nothing unusual occurred when unit number 05953234 was probed with various equipment. Once the chief physician deemed the examination complete, another scientist patted the infant’s head to ease away its discomfort.

That’s when the report came to light. Suddenly, the infant stiffened, its blue eyes flashing a golden symbol Verstael couldn’t recognize. Even when the scientist jerked his hand away, the child’s body spasmed. Tears escaped the child’s uncanny eyes, as did its snot and its drool when the spasms worsened. Yells and gargled cries followed suit, the chief physician barking orders and gently laying the infant on its side. The assistants scrambled with celerity, clearing the equipment away from the child.

For the entirety of twenty seconds, the symbol in the infant’s eyes glowed brightly. It took five more seconds for the infant to recover, the golden light fading away until the infant’s blue eyes returned.

No one had uttered a word as they observed the infant finally relaxed and looked back at them, oblivious to the events that transpired moments ago.

“Fern, what the fuck did you do?” quietly cried an assistant.

“Nothing!” The scientist named Fern protested.

“Enough, both of you,” the head physician admonished. “We need to conduct another examination. Fern, get the—"

The video paused.

Verstael was stunned, to say the least.

Taking a deep breath, he asked, “What’s its condition now?”

“Healthy,” the scientist— Dr. Fern, as Verstael realized— answered albeit slowly. “We’re still not sure what caused the seizure or identify the symbol. Results from a spinal tap shows nothing of metabolic disorders of the sorts. MRI’s still undergoing, but we assume that there’s an abnormality in the brain, and—”

“Send me a copy of the video and provide a full medical report no later than tonight.” Verstael interrupted.

Unphased by the interception, Dr. Fern nodded, “Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

“Sir.” Dr. Fern scampered off quicky, leaving Verstael alone in his office and in his ruminations.

The symbol that appeared in the infant’s eyes—an irregularity that never occurred in the previous batches. What could it mean?

Three days had passed. Dr. Fern was reported dead after being devoured by an escaping daemon.

────────────────────────────────────

The feast laid before him was similar to the one that had been prepared fourteen years ago, back when Adagium had awoken from his seven-months-long slumber. Back when Verstael was too afraid to consider using humans as experiments, when their deaths were an intimidating aspect to tackle.

The same Imperial tapestries and paintings hung on white walls, the same silver cutlery rested atop intricate table napkins— fourteen years had passed, yet there were some things that remained unchanging. He wasn’t one of those things that clung to the past. No, he had changed, matured, and evolved to a greater being— he’s one step closer to abdicate the gods from their thrones and—

The door opened, and Ardyn, trailed behind a couple of MT units, marched into the room. Verstael watched the Chancellor scan the room, familiarity lighting his amber eyes. “Doctor, to what pleasure do I owe you this time?”

Verstael gestured at the vacant chair beside him. “Have a seat.”

“Very well,” said Ardyn, complying. Once the MT units left the room upon the completion of its tasks, the door hissed shut.

The man who sat beside him was different compared to the man fourteen years ago. When the man then held himself in a despondent manner, eyes sunken low with whatever horrors he had to endure in Angelgard for two millennium, the Chancellor now held himself confidently. His movements were eclectic yet alert, so unlike the man who simply tossed a loaf of bread back to its plate instead of consuming it. Here was Adagium at his full element, unrestrained and very much in control of himself.

Fourteen years might not have any effect in this room. But for its occupants, much had changed.

“Is this déjà vu I feel?” When Verstael grunted his response, Ardyn prodded the meat with a fork. Apparently that’s all it took for him to construct a professional opinion. “Still cloned from this very facility. I take it there weren’t any other available venues for our second date?”

“I’m afraid no other avenues can provide the privacy needed for this meeting,” answered Verstael, reaching out to grab a bottle. “Care for some wine?”

“Pitiful, here I was hoping to have a taste of another brand.” Despite this remark, Ardyn accepted the offer, handing the researcher his glass.

“I can reassure you that I only request the finest quality.”

“No, you misunderstand, my friend,” Ardyn jovially corrected. “I wish to imbue the cheaper tastes for less-than-stellar nights. Too much suffering, after all, is never enough.”

Verstael raised a brow as the Chancellor downed his drink. “I’ve never pegged you for a masochist.”

“Have you seen yourself lately, Doctor?” He rebuked. “I don’t recall seeing you consume anything but your misery and frustration.”

“It’s a normal behavior to forgo eating under duress.” But Verstael contradicted his words by taking a bite of the cured meat. Not that it mattered anyway. “Regardless, I wish to discuss with you of important matters.”

“Ah, I knew there was more to it than a mere candlelit dinner. Well then, ask away!” He took it as his cue to place a folder down on the table, just beside Ardyn’s plate. “Oh, whatever is this?”

“See for yourself.” As Ardyn flickered the folder open, he stiffened upon catching sight of the images depicting one certain infant and a golden symbol. Whatever confidence the Chancellor carried was thrown off-guard, but it quickly recovered enough to _almost_ fool Verstael of Ardyn’s unflappability. “Unit number 05953234, the one you acquired an affinity with, developed an interesting and unique trait. Whenever it or a particular someone initiates contact, unit number 3234 undergoes seizure and emotional distress which last approximately 20-30 seconds. When recovered, it has no memories of its attack or it enters a catatonic state, a condition of which I have yet to calculate its estimate amount of time.”

Verstael paused and eyed at the Chancellor. Although the other maintained a respectable composure, Verstael saw how he digested the information given to him by Verstael himself or by the report laid before him. The researcher didn’t miss the way Ardyn traced the outline of the symbol with his thumb.

“Ordinarily, I would dispose this unit for its malfunctions. But as you’ve no doubt read on the report, those who had elicited such response from the infant died within the week, and many of those victims were working in the name of the Empire. I have yet to identify if there’s a similarity in the cause of death, but one thing is for certain based on my recent experiment: they all die, one way or another.

Therefore, I believe I would make an exception for one who is blessed with a divine power— a gift from a goddess exiled from the Hexatheon, who was believed to be nothing more than a myth and hearsay.”

He remembered how night after night, he would comb through the library and the archives for any imagery of this symbol. How he had once consulted the _Cosmogenesis_ series despite it lacking the answers he sorely needed. How he had almost considered sending a spy to Lucian or Tenebraean territory to acquire documents, until he stumbled upon one tome that detailed Eos’ ancient mythologies and legends and saw an exact replica of the symbol. And when he studied the text, even if it bore little information than he’d like, until the point of exhaustion, that’s when he understood the severity of the circumstances.

Here in his very facility lived a child who could bestow death upon another.

“Chancellor Izunia, time and time again, I have asked if there is anything fascinating that you see in this specimen. Now that I have unveiled the essence of its mystery, is there anything you would like to add in this study? I would appreciate any insight that you may harbor, seeing that you were able to recognize the potential of this infant far earlier than I had.”

He knew Ardyn was clever enough to understand that while he had phrased it as a request, it was ultimately a command. To feed the viper a taste of its own medicine— it’s truly a satisfying feeling to savor. Now, Ardyn was forced to lay down his cards— no deception, no dismissal, just the facts.

“Very impressive, Doctor. It seems you have accomplished your homework in advance,” Ardyn praised with a crooked smile.

Verstael didn’t flinch at the veiled animosity creeping in his eyes; if anything, he anticipated such reaction, given how distant the Chancellor was compared to before. Nevertheless, he did boast, “Was there anything to doubt when it comes to my abilities?”

“You could make do without the lunacy.” Funny, given how the Chancellor himself also wore it proudly like that mutilated chocobo wing he flaunted in his attire despite its irrelevance. “And where is this creature now?”

“Given its own accommodations. A weapon needs to be contained; do you not agree?”

“Ah, but that is where you are mistaken.” Ardyn corrected, smug. “Do enlighten me with your observations once more?”

Verstael narrowed his eyes. “I’ve told you. Demographic-wise, there’s no connection on who will be inflicted with its curse. And because of its phenomenal nature, I temporarily deem it as a game of probability after the sample datum have rejected my hypotheses. While it’s possible to assume that the infant is capable of choosing its own victims, I have yet to analyze it’s behavioral and sociological aspects. Nonetheless, when the infant undergoes a vision—as the legend coins the term as such— the subject shall die within a week.”

Half-way into his rambling, Ardyn had covered a portion of his mouth with a gloved hand. Seeing such exasperated reactions from the Chancellor was a normal one; Verstael was more worried if Ardyn hadn’t look annoyed at his lengthy explanation at the very least. “Oh, Verstael dearest, sometimes you think far more advance than I do, especially when the situation is simpler than you are making it to be.”

Verstael casted aside the condescending tone. “Well then, what do you make of it?” 

Ardyn grinned. “Let me regale you with a tale, Doctor—a tale that dates to the era of your forefathers. It is true that this child is bestowed with a gift from an absent deity, but you misinterpret it as another. It is a weapon of its own accord, a catalyst that does _not_ promise death’s respite; instead, it is a weapon that can be used as a means to _escape_ death.”

Verstael leaned forward, his hands clasped together. “You have my attention.”

“Before Bahamuth had blessed the world with an Oracle, there existed a Seer. And it is through him that men such as yourself can achieve immortality.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's how Ardyn manipulates Verstael and, later, Iedolas-- asserting his dominance by copy-pasting the bs he picked up from Ilios and in Valhalla and heavily exaggerating them. OOP. It's going to be a straight line from here on out, and I can finally achieve shitpost with Prompto and Ardyn's Bad Parenting™ in the next chapter.
> 
> Thank you so much for the support, kudos, comments, whatever floats your boat! You guys are the best :>


	5. I've Got Intentions of Gold With My Plans (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Without an heir, the nobility will abandon their loyalties to you and claim the throne for their own. For what good shall come to serve a dying dynasty?”
> 
> Iedolas hummed, “You anticipate a revolution.”
> 
> “I anticipate an avoidable opposition that can be rectified as early as now,” Ardyn corrected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: Prince Prompto ft. Ardyn's Bullshit
> 
> Here have this. This was supposed to be included in the previous chapter, but I have no "disappointed in my country" energy to channel, so yeah. Since this is just a continuation, the title is still from Echos' _Gold._

“This is ludicrous,” spat Verstael.

Ardyn re-settled the sleeping child in his arms. “And yet, here we are.”

They stood before the great towering doors that lead them to the throne room— to where the Emperor himself patiently waits for their arrival. The MT units stationed in the halls remained passive, much like their previous human counterparts. Well, Ardyn could no longer distinguish the two given a certain scientist’s propensity to use able men for his research. But the point still stands nonetheless: these machines submit to their programs far too easily. It would be a shame if someone were to encroach into the database and render the units useless. But that’s a thought for another time.

“Forgive me if I still struggle to understand as to why you desire to crown this child as prince,” haughtily replied Verstael. “Containment ought to suffice, given its unorthodox behaviorism.”

“Once again, I reiterate that not all things are meant for ruthless experimentations and that this child you speak of is Prompto.”

Prompto-- meaning quick. Ardyn found it a fitting name, considering the child’s propensity to disappear out of his sight in no more than five seconds, only to be found playing with the tools in Verstael’s lab and getting an earful from the chief researcher himself.

Or, as Verstael confidently stated after witnessing an eight-months-old Prompto attempting to crawl inside a vent that led to Astrals-knows-where: “He is quick to fall to his death, yes.”

Verstael grunted his disapproval. “Need I remind you that you are the one who suggested unethical experimentations?”

A rhetorical question by which Ardyn feigned a gasp. “I have done nothing but stoke the flames, Doctor. By all accounts, you very much had the privilege to extinguish it yourself. But alas, that is not what you did, is it?”

While Ardyn was rather busy galivanting around Eos under the pretense of a diplomatic visit for several months, which was really an attempt to adjust to the current times, Verstael entertained himself by conducting observational studies on Prompto.

Now imagine Ardyn’s surprise when Verstael laid down the file and revealed experiments as early as when Prompto was a month-old. He pitied the child, truly, to become a scientist’s plaything just as he was introduced to the world. Oh, if only Etro had thought ahead and realized that bestowing the gift of clairvoyance on a clone would spell disaster for everyone, especially for Ardyn himself.

He already had too much on his plate, being the literal embodiment of darkness thanks to yours truly. Adding a Seer on top of his list of responsibilities did little to ease the burden on his shoulders. Figuring out as to why the Goddess of Death thought it was a brilliant idea to toss a Seer into the chaos was another mystery.

He sincerely— genuineness wasn’t lost on him despite popular rumors fluttering about— hoped that this Seer would be a new soul, not a reincarnation of Ilios. Not that he minded meeting an old friend once more and quite possibly rope the boy into the plan of ending his brother’s legacy. No, it was more on the fact that his grand scheme, masterfully crafted within fourteen years, might be incinerated into ashes come Ilios’ interference.

But his hope was more or less diminished upon hearing Prompto’s first word: Ardyn. Or, in reality, something close to his name. But as soon as his butchered-pronunciation-of-a-name was uttered, Prompto scrunched his nose and said “Papa” instead. On that day, Ardyn learned two things: a.) children were sadistic little bastards, including the saintly ones, and b.) his years of perfecting his plan of retribution was in dire need of adjustments. Once again, Ardyn questioned Etro’s decisions despite Having her blessing.

The great doors creaked open, slowly revealing the grand throne room in all it glory and the Emperor that sat on his pompous throne. Whatever clever remark Verstael had to say died as he straightened his posture and held his head high. Ardyn, on the other hand, could care less about formalities. Well, years ago he would have; but after the fiasco that was his encounter with his dear brother and the Draconian himself, he stopped minding trivialities.

Prompto, now eleven-months old and growing bigger, opened his eyes and blinked curiously at the chambers ahead of them.

As Verstael stepped towards the throne room, Ardyn followed suit, briefly sparing a quiet “Remember to behave, my dear” to the child in his arms. As uncannily complacent and aware Prompto could be, Ardyn would like to not tarnish Prompto’s first impressions on the Emperor.

As far as Ardyn was aware of, Emperor Iedolas Aldercapt was once a honorable man of virtue beloved by his people. Unfortunately, the war between Niflheim and Lucis had taken too much toll on the man, with how the Lucians had murdered his family. Whatever benevolence the Emperor had was replaced with vengeance, one that Ardyn had taken the pleasure of using to good use.

“Chancellor Izunia, Chief Researcher Besithia,” introduced the Emperor donned in his royal garment bearing the colors of Niflheim: white and red— purity tainted by bloodshed, an apt description of Niflheim’s contemporary state. “I am curious to know as to why you two requested an audience. Now, seeing what you’ve brought here, I admit that you have my attention.”

Iedolas fixated his gaze onto Prompto, who in turn responded by scooting closer to Ardyn.

Slipping into the charismatic personality that most of the Empire’s best dreaded, Ardyn declared, “A fine day to you as well, Your Excellency! Might I first mention how delightful it is to have your approval on our recent maneuver against the Lucian spies in—"

Before he could even finish his spiel, Iedolas raised a hand. What nerve this pest had to interrupt his speech made approximately mere seconds ago? Did his ruthlessness knock away his decorum, as well? That’s highly ill-fitting for an Emperor. “What is it that you want, Chancellor?”

Despite his ire, Ardyn retained his smile and gracefully handed Prompto over to Verstael. He did require his gestures, after all, and he couldn’t possibly execute those without accidentally dropping the Seer. “Very well, I shan’t squander your time any longer than necessary. I don’t suppose there is no harm in being direct. I ask that you name this child—” he gestures to Prompto with one lazy wave of his arm, “an heir of Niflheim.”

Shock, confusion, disbelief— the same reactions Verstael had given when Ardyn initially proposed his plan. Except Iedolas had a more profound and rather polite way of expressing his bewilderment than a blatant _have you lost your gods-damned?_ “And why, pray tell, should I entertain this notion of yours?”

The stage was officially his, the Emperor and the soulless MTs lined up, substitutes for royal guards, be damned.

“It has come to my attention that our Imperial citizens have expressed their disapproval over the Court’s militaristic decisions as of late,” Ardyn first introduced. Disregarding Verstael’s quiet snort, he continued, “while I am very much an advocate of winning this war against the Lucians, I, along with the good Imperial men and women under your impeccable jurisdiction, sense a civil unease among our people. The common folks grow restless as we further prioritize military power rather than public health, education, and other sectors. While the nobles, though they are readily anticipating an economic increase with our newly-gained territories, await the end of your reign.”

“An unnecessary statement. Wasn’t it you who posits the path to immortality?” Iedolas countered.

“Indeed, it was I. But are the people aware of your pursuit?” Ardyn asked. When the Emperor frowned, Ardyn swooped in at the opportunity. “Without an heir, the nobility will abandon their loyalties to you and claim the throne for their own. For what good shall come to serve a dying dynasty?”

Iedolas hummed, “You anticipate a revolution.”

“I anticipate an avoidable opposition that can be rectified as early as now,” Ardyn corrected. 

The Emperor narrowed his eyes and flickered his gaze back and forth between Ardyn and the child on Verstael’s arms. Ardyn tipped his hat, sparing a brief glance at Prompto, only to see him wide awake and very much listening to the conversation.

He briefly recalled how Verstael ardently exclaimed: “I find it fascinating to see this level of intelligence and obedience at this stage. Is this a trait passed down among Seers?”

And Ardyn, being the reputable man of no consequence, said yes despite being puzzled himself. Then again, Prompto—or, for the sake of explanation, Ilios— acted differently: deviancy in such a way that he spent too much time staring outside windows if given the privilege and communicated efficiently within the best of his limited abilities as if Ilios had simply switched vessels instead of being reborn.

There were only a handful of times Prompto aggravated Verstael, and those were in regards to syringes, binds, a blatant refusal to socialize with the MT units, and the occasional childish antics that were completely normal for a developing infant. Well, so long as the Seer’s not dead, it’s safe to say Ardyn would find the need to intervene anymore than necessary.

(Getting him out of the MT regime though was considered a relevant action. Ardyn had seen enough experiments Verstael conducted to optimize the capabilities of the magitek army. It’s such a shame Verstael was made aware of Prompto’s specialty however.)

“Whose child is this?” The Emperor asked after a period of silence.

“It is an MT unit, Your Eminence.”

Verstael kindly interjected, “Soon-to-be MT. Created out of my genes, to be more specific.”

“What?” Iedolas spat in apparent bafflement, his fists clutching tightly on the arm rest of his throne. “And you expect me to crown this machine as prince? You ought to explain yourselves.”

In the face of adversaries, one must remain undaunted and steadfast. Or so His Shield (good heavens, how long had it been since he last saw Gilgamesh?) would emphasize. “I understand your concern, but would it not be easier to influence a machine rather than a person?”

Ardyn glanced at Verstael, who took the initiative as planned. “Given its nature, this child, along with its siblings, had undergone disciplinary processes as per instructed by the Imperial Council of Defense. I have personally studied this unit and discovered that it is more than capable of listening, obeying, and executing the orders. If he is to be named prince, then his compliance would decrease the chances of rebellion and deviancy in later stages. Moreover, because this unit Is mass-produced, it can be replaced should it fail to satisfy our requirements.”

But this replacement Verstael spoke of would not be necessary. They both knew better than to discard an invaluable asset. The less the Emperor knew what Prompto truly was, the better.

Iedolas listened intently, a pensive frown taking place. “Chief Besithia, if this child is of your blood, do you intend to pursue after the throne?” 

“Nay, Your Radiance. I have no intentions to overthrow your dynasty.”

“The prince shall only be utilized for publicity,” Ardyn intercepted. Frankly, he didn’t care if Verstael was annoyed by his intervention or not. What’s important was that Iedolas didn’t consider Prompto as a threat. “By naming him as the epitome of Imperial good will, it shall be made known that the magnificent Aldercapt dynasty shall not wither in due time. His presence will improve the citizens’ morale in these times of peril, fortify your ties with the nobility, and allow you to focus on your grand pursuit of immortality.”

Had Ardyn been anyone else, the silence would’ve unnerved him. All that was left was the Emperor’s call. 

As Iedolas pinned Prompto with another glare, he said, “I shall mull over my answer.”

“Of course,” they answered, one more exaggerated compared to the other.

The Emperor closed his eyes. “Is that all?”

“Indeed, it is.”

“You may leave.”

Ardyn raised his fedora, bowed, and calmly walked away from the throne room, Verstael trailing after him. As they left, the MT units stationed outside the chambers closed the doors behind them.

Finally, Verstael heaved a heavy sigh and returned the quiet Prompto back to Ardyn. “You are certain the Emperor will approve this?”

“Oh, he will,” Ardyn nonchalantly replied, carrying Prompto with ease. “Should he have his doubts, then we will lay down our concordant. Simple, isn’t it?”

The concordant Ardyn so eloquently mentioned contained six requirements Prompto was to meet should he be inaugurated as prince. Aside from the heavy scrutiny, frequent medical consultations, academic requirements, and other royal aptitudes Ardyn could care little about, its only purpose was to assuage the Emperor that no— Prompto shan’t rule over Niflheim. The proposed document dangerously leaned more onto solitary confinement, but ultimately it was a last resort that could appease a megalomaniac leader.

“Very well,” Verstael grunted. “I shall return to the infantry and resume my works.”

“What of dear Prompto?”

“Do what you will. Unfortunately, I’ve more pressing concerns to attend to. I trust that you won’t teach him any more unpleasantries.”

Ardyn rolled his eyes.

( A glass shattered, followed by a tiny “Fuck.”

To this day, his neck carried the lingering pain of a sudden whiplash. “I don’t recall cursing in front of you, my friend.”

“Be— Be,” Prompto started and pouted when he couldn’t pronounce the word. Instead, he put on his best impression of one scowling Verstael Besithia.

“Ah, I see,” Ardyn hummed. “Well, I don’t suppose there’s harm in being creative. Now, move away, would you? The shards do not clean themselves.” )

“I shall endeavor to exist with less offense,” Ardyn said.

Prompto looked back and forth between the two before eventually settling his attention on Verstael. “Bye bye.”

Verstael shook his head and stormed off, muttering some incoherent phrases, most likely referring to the Chancellor’s shenanigans, on his way.

“Well, that leaves us then.” Ardyn looked down and was met with a giggling child. “In the meantime, would you be interested in the firearms I’ve procured from the native tribes? They have a stellar craftsmanship that I think you would enjoy.”

He earned an excited squeal.

────────────────────────────────────

The Emperor finalized his decision three days after the audience.

“Dr. Besithia,” Ardyn hollered as soon as he set foot in the researcher’s office. “We are already behind schedule. Do fetch our dearest Prompto. His Radiance has answered.”

Verstael looked up from his report and squinted. There’s a brief flicker of confusion that crossed the researcher’s face, and Ardyn highly doubted Verstael had forgotten the audience. The schedule he had so jubilantly announced, on the other hand, was just concocted, say, twenty minutes ago. “Am I to assume you bring good tidings?”

Ardyn grinned. “You assume correctly. Now, let’s not waste anymore time than necessary, shall we?”

Niflheim had a new prince to crown. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ready to lose brain cells.
> 
> It has already begun by misspelling Iedolas' freaking name adsdsfiejf


	6. My Body Feels Young But My Mind is Very Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I fear for the future of the Empire,” Verstael lamented grimly.
> 
> “Sad,” Prompto commented as he took another spoonful of the pitiful excuse of a porridge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since school started, I wasn't able to dedicate a whole day writing this. My method of writing one section per day got wacked, hence the delay. Sorry about that. Anyway, I promised shitpost and I delivered, just as the Prophecy ordained.
> 
> The title for this chapter is from AURORA'S _Half the World Away._

A flicker of light danced out of the corner of Ardyn’s eyes. On ordinary days, he would’ve brushed it aside, claimed that he might have to start using lights instead of scented candles, and resumed perusing the documents bearing the Imperial seal. But alas, gone were the days of solitude in his abode.

“I’ve read that there once existed a great library in Tenebrae which held all the ancient chronicles and secrets dating back to your era. I would’ve loved to see it for myself if I had returned earlier-- but all’s the pity. However, after centuries of accumulated enlightenment from the greatest scholars and philosophers, t’was all razed by fearsome flames. Where knowledge once stood, ashes remained.” Closing his book, Ardyn stood and made his way towards Prompto. “It is said that when the masses flocked to mourn for their lost, they were bestowed with a wisdom ever-so-treasured to this day. Do you know what that is, my dear friend?”

As Ardyn knelt in front of the one-year-old, Prompto stopped waving around the lit candle and curiously looked at the other. Good, now he had Prompto’s utmost attention.

“The wisdom imparted to the people was this: do not play with fire, especially near flammables.” With that being said, Ardyn plucked out the candle out of Prompto’s tiny hand and snuffed out the dying flame.

Prompto blinked twice, blankly staring at his empty hand. Then he wailed, much to Ardyn’s chagrin.

“Oh come now, frankly I’m amazed you haven’t choked or singed yourself with this.” Ardyn soothed, patting Prompto’s head in consolation. When Prompto endeavored reaching for the candle again, Ardyn stretched his hand further away.

Prompto pouted and crossed his arms, huffing angrily, “Ardyn!”

Except he couldn’t pronounce his _r_ properly as of yet, so it was replaced with _h_.

“Ilios, I am merely protecting you as a good companion should,” Ardyn objected as if he was the perfect example of a paternal figure.

The angry pout remained, accompanied by a fearsome glare which frankly made the situation all the more amusing. Anger doesn’t suit children, including those who were reincarnated and reborn after millennium.

Ardyn sighed. “I see you would not listen to reason; therefore, I propose a barter.”

Prompto’s glare lessened.

“I ask for this candle,” Ardyn shook the item for emphasis, “in exchange for anything you desire in this room just for today.”

Prompto hummed in pensive thought as he looked around. Ardyn’s room, while bearing the necessities like any ordinary dormitories but with personalized flares here and there, housed trinkets and odds and ends gathered over the years. There were books as well, although not necessarily suited for children, but Prompto had yet to master Gralean in literature. Picture books, however, ought to suffice. Ardyn was certain he could get away with _Creatures of Eos_ and a vandalized _Cosmogenesis._

After a considerate amount of time spent scrutinizing his surroundings, Prompto stared at Ardyn straight in the eye and said, “Candle.”

“My dear, that is not how bartering works.”

“No,” Prompto shook his head before pointing at something behind him. “ _Your_ candle.”

Ardyn turned around and sure enough, caught onto what Prompto was doing. “You sly little devil.”

Prompto beamed. “Yes?”

“No.” Prompto’s grin fell. “I’m certain there are other things than can cure your boredom, my dear.”

Prompto hummed again. “...Hat?”

“That depends,” he answered. “Unfortunately, given the last incident by which I have lend you my precious fedora, I’m afraid I must ban any actions that involve chewing, drooling, and throwing it in the fireplace.”

In response to all this, Prompto scrunched his nose, grumbling, “No hat.”

“You know, if nothing captures your fancy, I suppose I ought to let Stella handle you instead.” Ardyn suggested, but it was immediately shut down with a cry of protest. “Something wrong with your caretaker?”

“No,” answered Prompto. “Stella good.”

“Why not spend some time with her instead?”

The only response elicited from the boy was a shrug. As unhelpful as it was, Ardyn heaved a sigh. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. Very well, you can have your candle.”

“Yay!”

Just as Prompto was scampering to reach for the candle, Ardyn tutted, “Ah, ah, ah. Before you acquire it, we must first lay down conditions.”

“Okay,” Sitting down again, Prompto crossed his arms and propped his chin with a hand, mimicking what Besithia would do in contemplation. Good riddance, a year old and he’s already a conniving little brat. Wasn’t Ilios a priest or had Ardyn not picked up some minor details during their conversations in Valhalla?

Either way, there were rules to be settled. “Fret not. There shall only be two conditions I expect you to follow. One: this candle shall remain unlit. Let us avoid burning down my collection, yes?”

“I like burning,” Prompto lamented.

“As do I, but there is a time and place for incinerating everything to ashes.” Ardyn agreed, briefly recalling the Infernian’s fires raining down on his brother’s kingdom. It seemed like yesterday when he went on the grand adventure to obliterate the proud Lucians. “Now, secondly, you must not speak of this incident to Stella.”

Because heaven forbid, the last time Prompto had opened his mouth and told his caretaker all the things he was able to do under Ardyn’s supervision, Stella all but admonished him, which was an unpleasant experience so to speak. But her concern had its merits; thereby forcing Ardyn to relinquish lending weapons for Prompto’s entertainment. Not all children knew the dangers of wielding one; Prompto was simply an exception veiled under the pretense of a normal child.

Prompto, for one, wasn’t delighted about the ban either. Hence why he wasted no time in complying to the second condition.

“Do you accept these terms, Ilios?”

The boy nodded with a grim expression. “Yes.”

“Then here you are— one unlit candle for the prince.” As soon as Ardyn presented the candle, it was quickly snatched away by the giggling child. The poor candle was once again waved about, a victim to vertigo and abuse. Ardyn had more sympathies reserved for this candle than everything else revolving around Lucians and the Empire.

Then, just as he was about to stand and return to his desk, he was met with an unexpected embrace. Prompto’s chubby arms were barely long to completely encircle Ardyn’s waist, but the boy was warm— a comforting presence that kept the daemons at bay and perhaps the temptation to snuff out more life than necessary, just as he had snuffed out the candle’s flame within a moment’s notice.

It was so easy to kill, easy to absorb others’ memories and realize that the world who praised his brother as the founder king had all but forgotten his existence, save for one scientist who sought naught but fame and power. The Scourge demanded bloodshed, sang sickening ways to best mutilate a body, and murmured sweet little lies to transform his apathy to enmity. Without Etro’s lingering presence, the malady thrived. But without Her blessing, Ardyn suspected that he would’ve been long gone.

“Thank you, Ardyn,” said the boy who was a year old but also a millennium old, whose name was both Prompto and Ilios.

With a wistful smile, Ardyn muttered in return, “You’re welcome, my friend.”

────────────────────────────────────

_This document serves as the official concordant in accordance with the inauguration of Prince Prompto Aldercapt. Throughout His Imperial Highness’ service to the public and to the glory of the Empire, the following conditions are to be met:_

  1. _Prince Prompto Aldercapt must be secured and monitored in the presence of assigned MT units and/or Royal guards._



Ilios learned there were two types of armored guards: the ones that talked and the ones that didn’t. It was difficult to distinguish the two at first since both donned the same mechanical armor. But the more time Ilios spent in observing his guards, the more he was able to identify which was which.

The ones that talked interacted with him instead of staring into space twenty-four seven. Some were austere and stern, tutting at him whenever he decided to sneak off behind his caretakers’ back or rushing to him before he could do something perilous. Some were kind and lenient, secretly handing him treats from the kitchen and playing along with whatever antics Prompto decided to do for the day.

The ones that don’t speak did none of those; instead, they ignored his wails and coos and left without a word when their assigned shift was over. They let him hold his hand if he attempted to walk on his feet though, but their movements were clunky and mechanical, which annoyed Ilios to no end. However, if Ilios so much moves away from their radar, they tail after him until t0he minimum distance was met. It was, if Ilios would oh-so kindly pick up Ardyn’s dictionary, uncanny. But looking on the bright side, Ilios took them as an opportunity to do whatever the hell he wanted. The only ones who could stop him from bringing down destruction were Ardyn or some caretakers, who all worked on shifts bar one. Stella was a constant presence, only leaving his side when he’s with Ardyn.

Something about her felt off. Ilios didn’t know how to describe it, but he could say that it’s like someone was trying hard to hide a big secret. He did try to inform Ardyn of this. But given his limited vernacular, he was only able to say “Stella weird” or something along those lines.

Sometimes he hated being a toddler again. He detested the fact that his cognition sporadically shifts from an adult’s to a child’s nowadays. The older he grew, the more he was losing himself. Sometimes he understood the words; sometimes he didn’t, even when it had been previously repeated in the past such as MT units, Starscourge, plasmodium, defective.

Ilios hated that he was starting to differentiate himself as Ilios and Prompto, just like he drew the line between the MT units and the Royal Guards. He hated how there were times that Ilios blinked in and out of unconscious, only to find himself in a different place and time, doing something that he didn’t remember doing. He had similar episodes back in Solheim, but back then, it didn’t feel like someone else was controlling his body.

Speaking of similarities, his abilities remained mostly the same. He could still see the souls drifting up to the skies and entering the Gate of Etro at night. He could hear their voices, murmuring echoes of their desires and despair alike. The one attribute missing was the ability to see the souls that refused to leave Eos. Unlike their brethren in Valhalla, these souls were far more… vengeful than normal. Whether he had lost that ability completely or he hadn’t encountered these souls yet remained unknown. Nevertheless, whenever he accepted sleep’s embrace, Etro made her visits quick.

To this day, Etro hadn’t clarified her answer as to why he was feeling this way— why he felt disconnected from his body, why he was reverting back to the mindset of that of a child’s. All that there was to say apparently was this: “ _It wasn’t meant to last.”_

Whatever that meant escaped Ilios’ understanding, just like the how the guards looked at him in confusion whenever he babbled and pointed at the bright lights at night. And no, he wasn’t referring to the stars. He was referring to the—

To the—

Bright lights? Moving lights? Shooting stars going up?

Ah, Bahamuths’ self-righteous twisted piety of an ass and something something whatever it is Papa says after ‘ass’.

“Something wrong, Your Highness?” The guard that wasn’t as empty as the previous one asked when he saw Prompto frowned in confused frustration out of the blue.

“Hungry,” Prompto answered. “Where food?”

────────────────────────────────────

  1. _Prince Prompto Aldercapt must remain physically, psychological, and sociologically able. All forms of malfunctions must be reported to Chief Researcher Besithia._



( “Must there be a reason for this particular requirement?” Ardyn raised.

Verstael responded nonchalantly as if the answer was simple. “The child is instrumental in the field of science and research, Chancellor. I find his aid beneficial in manufacturing perfection amid magitechnology and in saving more budget.”

“So you will adopt him as your little assistant.”

Verstael hid his grimace a second too late. “Rest assured, he shall receive utmost care and attention. It would be a waste to dispose a valuable component.” )

Like a spectator to an outlandish show, Verstael observed his test subjects behind a one-way mirror. The subjects were six hours away from being injected with their last dosage of plasmodium. But before the process would begin, he must first eliminate those whose system would reject the Scourge. What better way to cull out the failures than to send in the Prince himself?

On the other side of the glass, the twelve subjects roamed around the barren room, bearing resigned and hallowed faces. They ignored the child who would hesitantly approach them and hold their bony hands with his own. Sometimes the boy would receive his visions; sometimes he would not.

Verstael needn’t bother the ones whose fate were sealed. But as for the ones who failed to elicit a response from the boy prince, like the one Prompto was interacting with at this moment, he sends them away as fodder for the other daemons. Then when all that remained within the room were those who would receive a successful transplantation, he ended the observation. He ordered the MT unit accompanying the boy prince to escort the Seer out of the room.

In his earlier years, he would’ve sent Prompto to a different room to determine more of his subjects’ fate. But foolish was he to disregard the strain on the young Seer for every vision he foresaw. It was an incident Verstael would not repeat, lest he incur the wrath of one displeased Chancellor.

The door hissed open as the Seer and the MT left behind the test subjects. “State your condition, Prompto.”

“Tired, hungry.” the Seer answered, his shoulders slump. He would need to improve in providing a more detailed report.

Verstael pressed, “Headache? Nausea? Feelings of weightlessness?”

The child shook his head, “No. Hungry.”

“Very well. Come, I’ll ready your rations.” He turned and lead them to his office, not bothering to spare a glance to check if they were following. The MT’s heavy footsteps were enough to indicate the prince’s obedience. When they had arrived, he gestured the boy to occupy his high chair while he readied an MRE.

“Unfortunately, there had been a setback in cloning your usual. You shall have to make do with an ordinary meal.” Verstael laid down a bowl of unappealing grey mush in front of the child.

With narrowed eyes, Prompto dug into his meal and brought the spoon to his lips before making a disgusted face. “Suspicious.”

Understandable. He hadn’t liked the taste either. Frankly, it only gained its place in his storage when the scientist deemed it too unnecessary to visit the cafeteria. It served as emergency meal, in a sense, one that Verstael actively avoided whenever he had the chance. Still, Verstael raised an incredulous brow and echoed, “Suspicious? How so?”

It’s easy to imagine the cogs grind in the child’s mind to justify his verdict with the way he glared down at the bowl as if it had offended his entire existence. “It’s…” Prompto started, pausing for a moment. “Depressing.”

What in the Astrals’ name was the Chancellor teaching this child?

“Would you eat it?”

“No,” Prompto deadpanned, pushing the bowl away. “Tastes like dung. Deader than dead.”

Verstael’s not sure if he should be impressed or not, so he settled for a sigh instead. “I implore His Highness to watch his language. But I shall take your opinion into consideration.”

He turned around and briefly left the boy prince to mope in his seat as Verstael retrieved the dusted but efficient cure for depression from the cabinet.

Powdered ulwaat berries ought to ease the child’s suffering and spare the porridge from more heinous insults. Sprinkling its contents into the bowl, Verstael stirred until the grey mush took a purple hue. There, at least one characteristic had been removed to make it less depressing, as the Seer eloquently put it.

But even then, the change in color did little to encourage the child to take another spoonful. The disgusted glare hadn’t left either. “Still suspicious.”

“It tastes sweeter,” Verstael said. “Ulwaat berries are one of the native fruits of Tenebrae. Normally we import these fruits, but it spoils if contained too long as does any fresh produce. To rectify this dilemma, we utilized various processing methods to prolong its shelf life, all the while retaining its flavors through the usage of additional ingredients and emulsifiers.”

Prompto blinked, clearly not understanding a thing or two about his explanation.

Verstael rubbed away a growing headache and sighed, “Your porridge won’t taste like death.”

Three more attempts in coaxing and one thinly-veiled threat were made before Prompto could voluntarily consume another portion of the purple mush. When a minute had passed, Verstael was ready to chastise the Seer for playing with the sustenance until Prompto finally swallowed and gave his verdict: “Valid.”

His reluctant approval didn’t mean Prompto would whole-heartedly finish his meal though.

“I fear for the future of the Empire,” Verstael lamented grimly.

“Sad,” Prompto commented as he took another spoonful of the pitiful excuse of a porridge.

────────────────────────────────────

  1. _Prince Prompto Aldercapt must undergo standard royal tutelage and satisfy academic requirements. Moreover, he must attain fluency in Gralean and common understanding of Lucian, Tenebraen, and Altissian._



Ardyn was one step away from burning the documents until a little intruder sprinted into his office and took shelter under his desk. Before the Chancellor could so much raise a question, a servant scurried into the room, disheveled and red-faced.

Her eyes searched frantically around the room. “I’m sorry for intruding, m’Lord, but is His Highness here?”

Ah, so that explains the racket. Subtly sparing a glance below the desk, Ardyn saw the prince placing a finger on his lips with pleading eyes. Ardyn returned his gaze back at the servant. “I’m afraid you have just missed him.”

“Oh, my apologies,” the servant excused herself, closing the door upon taking her leave. When three seconds passed, Prompto emerged from his hiding spot, giggling.

“I do hope you’re not shrinking away from your duties,” Ardyn said, watching the child clamber up to his lap with the gracelessness of a hammered cat. “I’ll have you know I’ve pulled many strings to keep you alive, Ilios.”

“Pee pee poo poo,” Prompto answered sagely— unfortunately _too_ intelligently that Ardyn failed to understand what he’s trying to convey.

“Come again?”

Ignoring the question, Prompto positioned himself to face Ardyn before poking the Chancellor’s nose. “Boop.”

“Is this the price I pay after two thousand years of slumber?” Ardyn mourned yet reciprocated the gesture nonetheless, eliciting a squealed laughter from the child. “Oh how cruel the gods are, to subjugate me to this perpetual torment! Whatever shall I do to escape from this misery?”

Prompto’s eyes lit up as he answered, “Die.”

Wise words, indeed. Scoffing, Ardyn continued, “Nay, death shall be man’s last resort. For no respite may arrive when the beast roams free. To slay it is to bring peace in this worn soul. And for that, I must thereby inform your caretakers your whereabouts so that you will experience true agony in your royal etiquette lessons. A fitting retribution from one monster to another.”

Watching Prompto’s amusement fall the more Ardyn spoke was an endearing sight. Just as he was about to finish his spiel, Prompto cried in protest, “No, no! No study!”

“Oh? And why not?” Ardyn cocked his head to the side. “Were you not the erudite one between us?”

“It’s boring!” Prompto complained, “Not fun!”

Ardyn feigned a gasp, “Ilios, how very uncharacteristic of you!”

But for some odd reasons, the child crossed his stubby arms and glared, “Papa, my name is Prompto!”

Although Ardyn raised his hands in mock surrender, he raised an inquisitive brow. “Alright, alright. I’m very sorry for my error, my dear Prompto.”

With an angry pout, Prompto accepted his apology. “Still don’t wanna study.”

_“Well, you should,”_ Ardyn said experimentally in Solheian, disregarding the fact that he must’ve butchered his pronunciations from the lack of use. Well, it’s not like it had bothered Ilios before anyway. Nevertheless, he was expecting a usual smart remark from the child; but the only response he received was a look of confusion.

This time, Prompto voiced his concern. “What are you saying?”

How odd. That had never happened before. “Nothing.” 

Whatever it was that’s happening to Prompto, Ardyn first suspected it was Besithia’s doing. Given the chief researcher’s propensity to dabble onto things that should not be experimented to begin with, it wouldn’t surprise Ardyn if Besithia had one day decided to take his “experiments” with Prompto to another level. However, what stopped the Chancellor from fully accusing the scientist was the fact that Besithia only knew a fraction of Prompto’s upbringing. Besithia only knew he was a Seer, a servant of Etro, but not a citizen of Solheim who had spent eternity loitering in Valhalla.

Had Ardyn fully disclosed such information, Besithia would hold Prompto to a higher pedestal in the name of science. The man was already nearing insanity with his mission to recreate and surpass Solheian technology; what more could he possibly accomplish had he’d been aware of Prompto? Besithia was a dangerous man, but he’s essential in bringing down Lucis to its knees. He would be dispose of in due time; but for now, it was best to play along with Besithia’s foolish fantasy.

Ardyn felt his nose being poked at again. “Papa?”

Dismissing his thoughts away, Ardyn directed his full attention at the child in front of him and _looked_. Blonde hair, freckled features, blue eyes— ironically a perfect copy of Ilios. But his eyes were brighter now, unsullied by shadows that shouldered the consequences of being Etro’s Champion. Ardyn didn’t remember seeing them this different; it’s like he was looking at someone else— a stranger who saw him as a parental figure rather than a friend who accompanied him for two thousand years. So who was it that stood before him now?

“My apologies, my dear,” Ardyn said when Prompto had called his name again, concerned by the silence. “I’ve a lot in my mind.”

Prompto studied him a moment longer, presumably scanning for deceits Ardyn threw on daily basis. How funny it was to know that a child had a keener sense in identifying duplicity than some certain officials within the Imperial office.

“Oh well, if you insist on fleeing from your lessons. Then I shall have to bring the lessons to you.” As he changed the subject, Ardyn watched Prompto’s concern slip away, replaced by an annoyed one. “Now, now, I’ve no room for petulance seeing you have disturbed me from my work.”

In all honesty, Prompto’s impromptu (no pun intended) visit was a welcomed break amid written political ramblings and debate. Perhaps the Defense Council would learn a thing or two about patience.

Opening a drawer, Ardyn retrieved a book simple enough to begin Prompto’s lessons in Gralean. Although it was a far cry from the children’s books Prompto’s nannies provided, _The Art of War_ should give Prompto a head-start in Gralean literacy. What’s more—there’s _proper_ illustrations, not silly looking caricatures that ignore the rules of anatomy and physics.

“Now then,” Ardyn said when Prompto changed positions so that his back leaned on Ardyn’s front. “I assume you remember your phonetics?”

Prompto hummed in affirmation, his plain disinterest clearly showing no signs of leaving any time soon.

Ardyn needed to rectify that, lest he would only waste time teaching a brick wall how to read. “If you prove to be capable in literature, you may freely read _Chocobo Adventures_ all by yourself.”

With his secret weapon laid bare, Prompto stood straighter and stared intently at the printed Gralean letters. Heavens above, Prompto’s profound love for the feathered beasts still caught Ardyn off-guard every now and then. The child had only read of their existence; what more could he possibly do if he encountered them?

Cry from happiness, Ardyn answered to himself as he corrected a mispronunciation.

────────────────────────────────────

  1. _Prince Prompto Aldercapt must undergo combative programs alongside human soldiers._



There are two sides of a coin: heads and tails. Similarly, there are two perspectives of morality and ethics: good and bad. Now, if Prompto were to apply the things he learned thus far, he would arrive to two conclusions: a.) he had successfully shaken off his assigned nanny and guard albeit temporarily, thereby gaining a moment of independence and solitude as a reward, and b.) he was terribly lost in the twisting corridors of Zegnautus Keep.

One of those conclusions was intentional; the other was not. It didn’t take a genius to know which is which.

Who designed this place anyway? Who thought it was a good idea to make everything look so similar and suffocating? Where did the colors go? Did he become color-blind as a punishment for his mischief?

He looked to his left, to his right, and found nothing that informed him of his whereabouts. Oh sweet Etro, he’s going to die down here, wasn’t he? Stranded in the middle of nowhere, with the sounds of his breathing and the air flow from the exhaust vents being his only accompaniment in the dark, grey halls.

Wasn’t this usually the part in story books wherein the answer magically appeared after the hero had reached his breaking point? Now that he’s experiencing the very same, where was his knight in shining armor? Come on, he hadn’t wasted weeks of engrossing himself in stories just to find out that they were full of crap. This was not how his plan was supposed to happen. As far as he was concerned, there were three major points in his scheme:

  1. Escape from his room without anyone noticing (Okay, so maybe he might have not fulfilled the latter. But it’s the thought that counted, so it’s still a success.)
  2. “Acquire” chocolate from the kitchen
  3. Eat and go back before he gets in trouble.



It’s a sound plan, if he knew where the kitchen was in the first place. Papa’s going to be pissed _and_ disappointed if he failed this last-minute expedition.

“Hey!” Prompto froze. “You lost?”

The voice sounded _young_ , not like Stella young but _young_ young. That statement didn’t make any sense, but who cares? The thing was this: unless this was an odd person with a really high-pitched voice, this mysterious fellow wasn’t a typical guard or caretaker.

Muttering a quick prayer to the Goddess of Death that Stella taught him, Prompto took a deep breath, turned around, and looked up. There’s nothing but thin air.

“Uh, down here. You blind or something?”

“Sorry,” Prompto quickly apologized and recorrected his gaze.

The snarky voice belonged to a boy, who was a few inches taller than him. He was skinny (then again, almost everyone save Ardyn was thinner than Prompto) and had blonde hair, styled in a manner Prompto hadn’t seen before.

“I don’t remember seeing you before, so you must be new around here.” The boy looked down, whistling when he caught sight of the garments Prompto wore. “Mhm, definitely a stranger.”

“Um,” Prompto said intelligently. It’s so good to know that he had spent months in practicing proper etiquette and behavior, just to come up with something as eloquent as a stutter.

“You know who your superior is?” The boy asked.

Prompto blinked, parroting, “My… superior?”

“Yes?” The boy said slowly, wondering if his question wasn’t as clear as he thought it had been. “Your commanding officer?”

Ah, he must’ve been referring to the person who trains him. Exactly why he didn’t realize this sooner was beyond Prompto’s reasoning. Then again, if he wasn’t surprised by this person’s sudden appearance and if he wasn’t lost in the first place, he would’ve connected the dots earlier. “General Basque.”

“General who?” This time, the other boy was the one who grew confused. Not knowing how to respond to that, Prompto repeated the name. “Weird. You sure your officer’s a general? Not a lieutenant?”

“Yes?” At this rate, he’s going to sound like a broken person. Could this person kindly not mention any more confusing terms? Who was he anyway? 

“Right…” The boy trailed off. “Alright, here’s what we’re going to do. Since I’ll be heading to the training grounds anyway, you can follow me and find your commanding officer.”

“You’d do that?” Oh thank heavens, he could finally leave this mess of a maze. He didn’t care about getting an earful from Ardyn or Stella or whoever he ticked off; he just wanted to go back to the comforts of his room and never come out for a day.

“Yeah. Come on, follow me!” Motioning for Prompto to tag along, which the prince complied without so much of a complaint, the boy guided Prompto away from confusing and annoying hallways.

As Prompto walked beside the boy, the prince asked, “What’s your name?”

“I’m Loqi,” he answered, briefly tearing his eyes away from the path to look at Prompto. “What about you, rookie?”

Was that supposed to be a compliment or an insult? “My name’s Prompto Aldercapt, but you can call me Prompto!”

Loqi stopped dead on his tracks, but Prompto hadn’t noticed the other did until he realized that Loqi wasn’t leading him anymore. “Wait, Prince Prompto?!”

“Uh, yes?” Prompto asked softly.

Loqi cursed out an expletive, stammering, “Shit, uh, wait, shit. Shiva’s tits, um… I’m sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t know it was you.”

Seeing Loqi drop his bravado only made Prompto confuse at the turn of event. “Uh, it’s okay? You don’t have to apologize for anything.”

Although there were still traces of panic in his features, Loqi relaxed. Well, at least one of them was mollified. “Thank you. Thank you.”

Weird how a kid who’s around his age acted similarly to the servants. It’s kinda disappointing to know that Prompto couldn’t receive a different treatment from his peers. Were they all going to act this way around him— all stiff and formal?

“I should—ah, escort His Highness back to the training grounds,” Loqi said. Before Prompto could so much correct him to drop the formalities, the other swiftly walked past him By the time they’ve arrived to the training grounds, Stella was there, along with the officer who trained him. They were engrossed in their conversation until Stella’s concerned eyes landed on Prompto; the general’s following her gaze shortly after.

“You can stay here while I ask for… uh, General Basque, was it?” Loqi said, doing his absolute best to not look at Prompto. Was it his appearance that bothered Loqi? Did something got stuck between his teeth again?

“You don’t have to do that anymore. I see them,” Prompto answered, pointing at his caretaker and trainer’s direction, which was highly improper, but he didn’t care at this point. “Thank you for your help, Loqi.”

He smiled, and finally, Loqi mustered the courage to look at him. He returned Prompto’s smile with a small quirk of his own. “You’re welcome, Your Highness.”

They parted ways when Loqi’s commanding officer shouted. When General Basque threatened to double his training at his sudden disappearance and Stella expressed her relief, all Prompto could ponder on was Loqi.

────────────────────────────────────

  1. _Prince Prompto Aldercapt must only participate in official public affairs. He is not to gain acquisition of the throne._



While the intention of the formal ball is to divulge Prompto to the adoring Niflheim public, the boy of the hour himself lasted two hours before hiding away from noble, uptight eyes. Not that Ardyn blamed him, of course—there’s nothing a four-year-old could entertain himself with in an event where snooty aristocrats mingle and talk in circles. The Chancellor himself, on the other hand, had a reputation to keep as the right hand of the Emperor.

Which is why, come the end of the party, Ardyn had approached Prompto’s caretaker and asked, “Stella, have you seen Prompto?”

Stella Cadere, while young and of Niflheim descent as one discrete background check revealed, suspiciously shared similarities to the Nox Fleuret: fair-skinned, blonde, regale features that looked so out of place for a mere commoner. More than once did he order the MT units to spy around Prompto’s caretaker, but the results were far from promising since she had done nothing out of place. Nothing that concerned possible political strife that may interfere with his plans at least. Nevertheless, Ardyn had his suspicions despite knowing how Prompto had grown attached with her.

“He’s in the gardens,” Stella answered, nudging her head outside. He directed his gaze and saw a tuft of blonde hair poking out behind well-trimmed bushes. “I’m afraid he’s been overwhelmed by the crowd tonight.”

“As he should be. I would be concerned if he wasn’t.” He tipped his hat in thanks before making his way to the boy.

Well, that was the plan until she spoke: “He doesn’t refer to you as Ardyn anymore, does he?”

When he looked back, Stella wore a pensive look. “Oh? And what makes you assume that?”

“He calls you his papa,” she said, showing a secretive smile. “Isn’t he supposed to be the son of the emperor, Chancellor?”

Ah, so the servants had noticed the change as well. “His Radiance spends little time on His Highness. Unfortunately, despite being the heir of the emperor, the responsibility of nurturing the prince falls onto me. Regardless, I am quite flattered to be referred to as a father.”

“Is that so?” She pressed on, her eyes briefly glancing to where Prompto was. “He seems to be happier as of late. It’s a refreshing to see him act like an ordinary kid instead of being quiet.”

That’s true in any case. As Ilios grew older, the more he seemed to be replaced by this little ball of sunshine who laughed more times than Ilios ever had. Over time, he stopped calling him Ardyn as Stella mentioned, stopped understanding complicated words. But in turn, he grew more curious, more rebellious than compliant, and social. Funnily enough, he stopped referring to “bright lights” as souls, yet Ardyn often found burnt incense in Prompto’s room.

Was this an effect for his abilities? Ardyn didn’t know. The Goddess had yet to answer his inquiry, aside from the vague “let him live” that scarcely answered anything.

“I must say, your presence must have affected Prompto positively,” Ardyn answered, which was neither a lie nor a truth.

Her smile grew more genuine. “I’m glad to hear that. If I may, would you like to hear a little rumor about children in Leviathan’s passages?”

Just hearing the name of the wrathful Tidemother made Ardyn bit back a snicker. Unless the psalms changed over the course of two thousand years, then there was nothing interesting to talk about— more so when it came to an Astral who’s arrogance rivaled Bahamuth’s. But out of politeness, he said, “I may spare a little time. His Highness seems enjoying himself with the fields. It would be rude of me to interrupt him.”

“Of course. There’s a legend in Tenebrae pertaining how the Goddess of Death and Rebirth—” Ardyn held back his scoff, “grants a felled faithful a glimpse of his current life. They say that when a child is born, the memories and the conscience of his past life are retained. From there the child lives as if it was a continuation rather than rebirth. But as he grows older, his past fades away until he achieves _tabula rasa_ , paving way for a new identity.”

Interesting. Very interesting. “And why does Leviathan grant this gift if it were to be removed later on?”

“Reassurance,” Stella stated as a-matter-of-factly. “The fear of death is a common thing. The legend might have omitted on this part, but if it were true, then I believed it’s the Goddess’ way of saying that there is life after death— that the cycle of death and rebirth isn’t fictional as it sounds.”

“And this comes from Leviathan herself?”

“Maybe. Again, it’s just an old legend,” Stella hummed.

“Stella! Papa!” They looked to Prompto, his clothes and hands dirty from playing around in the dirt, yet wearing a cheerful grin nonetheless. On the temple of his head rested a crown crafted out of white magnolias. There were two more dangling from his hand, and with the way Prompto all-but-sprinted towards their direction with the flowers crown at hand, Ardyn assumed they were gifts. “Look what I made!”

Ardyn knelt down in front of the boy (Prompto was still horrendously small that his back hurt from picking him up) and exclaimed, “Well, I see we have a little craftsman in our midst.”

“Stella taught me!” Prompto chirped as he handed one of the flower crowns to his caretaker, who gracefully accepted the offering with a warm smile. She donned the gift as if it were a natural thing to do when it came to energetic princes. “Here, I made one for you, too!”

“It’s marvelous, my dear.” Ardyn complimented, accepting the magnolia-weaved crown that was thrusted to him.

Prompto’s eyes brightened with impatience. “Please wear it!”

He twirled the flower crown, its weight far lighter than a true crown forged by fearless fire and powerful steel. It’s funny, really. Wasn’t this what he wanted two centuries ago? Being bestowed with crown that marked him as the first King of Lucis, anointed by the Crystal and by the people for his impeccable service? No, the desire still rung true; only this time, he sought his rightful crown _and_ an end to the Lucis Caelum bloodline. Only then could he know peace.

In his hand was a fragment of what could have happened had the Crystal remained true to its word.

However, it seemed that dear little Prompto had grown too impatient that he snatched the crown from his hands and replaced his fedora with it. The boy had the audacity to look proud in his handiwork.

The sunlight burnt, but he could tolerate its pain. When Stella gave him a concerned subtle glance, he paid it no mind as he focused on the boy who cooed over his work.

────────────────────────────────────

  1. _Prince Prompto Aldercapt must be replaced with another MT unit of similar features should the current prince fail to meet two or more conditions as stated above._



_From these conditions, we, Chief Researcher Verstael Besithia and Chancellor Ardyn Izunia, implore only the greatest intentions for the glory to the Empire._

The knocks were quiet, but it was still noticeable enough for Ardyn to take notice. Immortal he might be, fueled with a darkness that whispered promises to his conscience when silence reigned over the ambiance, he wondered what atrocious event could possibly occur in the middle of the night that direly required his presence.

Surely the Emperor could handle himself well in the event of assassinations; after all, he had an army of MTs awaiting his orders.

He trudged across his dimly lit room, grumbling expletives that was hardly grammatically-sound in his current state, and swung the door open. “I pray you have a reason for this disturbance?”

“Pa?”

He looked down and, sure enough, Prompto stood in his pajamas, head bowed and arms embracing the chocobo plushie Ardyn had gifted him three months ago. “Prompto? Why are you up so late at night?”

“Can’t sleep.” Prompto mumbled. “The lights are too bright.”

“You can always turn them off.” He knew that it wasn’t the fluorescent lights the boy was referring to. Well, he hoped it was.

“I can’t. They’re already sad. I don’t want to make them feel worse.”

“Are they plenty?” He earned a nod. It seemed Verstael would be expecting a bit of a hiccup in whatever study he’s conducting tomorrow morning. “Did you come here all by your lonesome?”

“No, Stella led me here.” Prompto shook his head.

“And where is she now?”

“Back to her room.” That woman clearly placed her faith on him, didn’t she? “Could I sleep with you?”

“Well, since you have already made it this far, I suppose I should,” Ardyn stepped aside. “Come in before you freeze out there.”

At his acceptance, Prompto scrambled onward and immediately dived on top of the duvet. Closing the door behind him, Ardyn trekked back to his bed, frowning when the boy had settled himself on the center. He nudged Prompto’s shoulder. “Move, if you please.”

Prompto groaned but complied, nonetheless. When Ardyn had laid down, Prompto had immediately scooted to his side, his chocobo plushie squeezed between them. Poor thing— another victim of Prompto’s sturdy embrace. “Night, Pa.”

“Goodnight, little sunflower.”

The boy was the first to enter the dreamscape, his slumber unperturbed from the wailing souls outside of the Keep. The room returned to its quiet state, but the daemons kept their promises to themselves.

It’s one of the rare nights when Ardyn could sleep the night away, instead of remaining awake and listening to the ramblings of the Scourge. Peace— he hadn’t felt this in a long while. He might as well savor it while there’s still the opportunity to do so.

Because once the beginning of the prophecy is nigh, once the One True King as ordained by the stars would grace the land of his presence, peace would elude Ardyn until he delivered the coup de grace. When that fateful encounter arrives, he hoped Prompto wouldn’t interfere with his plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the end of this chapter, Prompto inherits:  
> \- Ardyn and Verstael’s crazy ass hand gestures  
> \- Ardyn’s tendency to barge in and slam the door open to make an entrance  
> \- Verstael’s rambling  
> \- Ardyn’s sneakiness  
> \- loneliness because he’s pretty much the only autonomous(?) kid in Gralea oop
> 
> Also, yes. Stella in this fic is exactly who you think it is. Cadere means fall. Since I can’t use Nox Fleuret, I have to settle with Fallen Star because Stella fell from the FFXV development and—ya I’m gonna shut up right about now.


	7. Remember Not to Get Too Close to Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fear did not suit royalty, Loqi learned. It’s an emotion that scarcely crossed an Emperor’s noble features; only the weak carried this mask. He still wore it sometimes, when the tasks were too tedious and the rest of the child soldiers went missing whenever they failed to meet the conditions. But someday, he’ll let go of it soon— stop clinging to his weaknesses and set his focus only for the glory of the Empire.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

The Emperor’s terse face emphasized His Radiance’s wrinkles. Age had taken a toll on him, but soon it would be the least of his concerns.

He drummed his fingers on the throne’s arm rest in rumination.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

The crisp letter that the Emperor held had yet to form a crease. Even from where Ardyn stood, he could see its content proudly declare in bold ink: “His Majesty Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII formally invites His Imperial Majesty Iedolas Aldercapt to a grand ball in celebration of His Royal Highness Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV 8th birthday.”

Truth be told, Ardyn’s uncertain what pisses him off more: the cordial and proud tone the letter bore, the Lucians and his _dear brother’s_ descendants themselves, or the inane number of titles written down.

“How thoughtful of them to send their enemy an invitation to a ball,” Iedolas hummed, eyes sharp.

“No doubt they aim to please His Radiance for more senseless feud.” Ardyn said, “Will His Excellency accept the invitation?”

“No, I’m not concerned with the Prince. Lucis and its Crystal will be under my control sooner or later.” When a beat of contemplative silence had passed, the Emperor continued, “You shall go in my stead, Chancellor. Take a squadron with you as well.”

An unexpected turn of events, but it provided Ardyn an opportunity to mock the Lucians in their grounds once more. How did Insomnia fare after the Infernian, more dog than god, razed her streets?

“I assume that my other areas of expertise are needed.” Information-gathering, no doubt. But that had become a child’s toy when he could use the Scourge to harvest memories. Well, there were alternatives but nothing was as satisfying as hearing a frail body scream as the malady eviscerated the skin and crippled the bones to pave way for a greater, far more superior vessel that can—

Ah, ah, ah. Now was not the time for such morbid thoughts, daemons.

“Once the day ends, I shall prepare for the journey.” Ardyn announced, earning an approved grunt from the Emperor. “Now, I believe Galahd is in need of renovation.”

────────────────────────────────────

The red camera shuttered from a distance as Ardyn flipped a page of _Solheim Legends_ , a book boasting to have restored lost texts burnt from the Great Library. With Prompto’s past self no longer present, Ardyn only had his memories to distinguish the discrepancies. As for the magiteknology section that Verstael was oh-so fond of, Ardyn took the information with a grain of salt.

_Snap. Snap. Snap._ Someone was quite trigger-happy with his little device. 

“I will be leaving for Lucis in a week. Would you like anything?” He asked.

The shuttering stopped. The boy prince, now seven years old, looked up from his camera. “A book?”

After seven years of partially taking Prompto under his wing, Ardyn learned his preferences. “On chocobos, I take it?”

The answer came in the form of a timid whisper. “On photography, please.”

He paused from his reading and briefly looked through the memories he gained from daemonifying poor wandering strangers, searching for an individual who shared the same passion as Prompto did now. There were three titles that came to mind— the owners of those memories long forgotten after infecting too many a person _._ Those recollections played as if he were watching a film through another’s eyes; page flipped after page in rapid succession until days and night blurred endlessly like the midnight waves of Valhalla.

Those books ought to suffice. He would have to pick them up along the way—that, or he could procure them during his brief stay in Lucis.

“Of course, I’m delighted to see you invested in this hobby of yours.” Ardyn said to the boy. Photography had no place in the game of politics; it’s an art, indeed, but not as dignified as painting or playing an instrument.

Either way, the compliment spurred the boy to blush from embarrassment. He had yet to learn to conceal those emotions of his, but Ardyn suspected otherwise. “it’s fun. It doesn’t take too much time as painting does.”

He had seen Prompto’s works and noticed the pattern of capturing reality rather than creating a perspective of one. He witnessed first-hand how Prompto evolved from doodling non-sense and anatomically incorrect chocobos in randomized strokes to carefully detailing what his eyes perceive with an impressive concentration. In the end, it was a good call to give him a camera instead of a sketchbook. That transition however didn’t mean that Prompto had stopped doodling his favorite creatures of Eos on his notebooks and on Ardyn’s personal notes.

“That’s because painting teaches you patience, my dear.” _Photography teaches you precision, a useful skill in the battlefield_ was left unsaid. He wondered if Prompto would act similarly to the MT units, even when he had undergone a different training regime.

“I don’t like staying still though,” Prompto admitted as he looked through his camera’s gallery.

“Because it’s boring?”

Prompto bit his lip. “No, it reminds me of the guards— the MT ones.”

“Oh? What changed? They haven’t bothered you a slightest when you were young.” Unless Verstael made changes without notice, then there was nothing pressing to be concerned with.

The boy didn’t answer, but he did resume taking pictures of whatever catches his eyes. Most likely he was formulating his thoughts—how to best approach a topic without offending his listeners. That’s one royal lesson successfully integrated in his behavior. “The way they move scares me, especially at night.”

Ah, the other models meant for combative use. But whether it’s the axeman or the assassin prototype was the one Prompto’s referring to wasn’t necessarily important to know. Verstael had prioritized precision and prowess over fluidity in his projects recently. 

“So long as they do not harm you, then there’s no need to fear them. You are a prince, Prompto. They will listen to you.” Which might not be as true as he made it sound. By social standards, then indeed Prompto outranks the high commander, Besithia, and Ardyn himself his authority only challenged to the Emperor. But in terms of the code installed within the units, Prompto falls just below the High Commander’s rank.

A sigh escaped the child’s lips. He let their conversation die down and returned to his reading, not minding the moments wherein Prompto would reach over and brush off a strand away from his face just before taking a picture.

“Actually,” Prompto started softly, meeting Ardyn’s eyes.

“What is it?”

“May I go to Lucis with you?”

────────────────────────────────────

“If I were to bring dear Prompto on Lucian grounds, would you permit me to do so?”

Ardyn had never seen Besithia twist his poor old neck that swiftly. Bristled, the scientist yelled, “Absolutely not!”

But Ardyn, being a particular man of no consequence, hummed in contemplation.

It would do well for Prompto not to act as Besithia’s lab rat once in a while. The boy desperately needed some sun on his skin.

────────────────────────────────────

“Psst! Psst! Hey, Loqi!” Prompto, having yet to learn the art of subtlety, called, half-whispering and half-yelling despite the person-in-question being in the same room as the prince and only a stone throw away— mind you.

Loqi looked away from the burning incenses situated on the windowsill. He didn’t have those back home, but he figured it was more on the royalty side rather than nobility. He had to give them credit though: it smelled nice, a far cry from the usual metal and gunpowder stink. “What? What is it?”

Prompto looked around comically, his stare on the observant albeit silent MT unit was a moment longer than necessary, before he eventually settled his attention back to Loqi with an elated grin, “I’ve got a really big secret to tell you! Like _big_ big!”

“Oh yeah?” Loqi studied the prince’s face. “You sure a foot soldier like me should know about it?”

“Nope!” Prompto answered, popping the _p_ despite it being informal. Then again, His Highness had eagerly dropped all formalities when he befriended Loqi through unconventional means: requesting his presence in the prince’s free time, offering to sneak off together to the kitchen, childish behaviors that Loqi shouldn’t encourage but did so anyway out of the goodness of his heart and out of fear of disobeying royalty.

It must be nice to have this much freedom. Prompto once told him that he’d gotten caught in one of their secret meetings. When an apology was on the tip of Loqi’s tongue, Prompto quickly added that he was only admonished for sneaking off without alerting anyone.

It must be nice not to receive a severe punishment whenever someone committed a mistake. Princes are so lucky— so different from the kids in the program.

Loqi sneered, “You getting me killed, Highness?” 

A horrified look crossed Prompto’s expression. “No, I’m not! It’s not that much of a big deal! Promise!”

“Sure,” Loqi drawled, watching the Prompto visibly lit up and repeatedly pat the spot beside him.

“Sit, sit! You’re too far away!” The prince demanded. For a moment there, Loqi was concerned that Prompto would break his bed with how aggressive his tapping were. But Imperial-made cushions were nothing but sturdy despite its velvety texture and softness. It could very well handle an eager prince.

“It’s not even that far, Highness.” Loqi quipped yet complied to his prince’s demand nonetheless. As expected, the mattress cushioned most of his weight, its softness far more superior than the ones in the dormitory.

“You want to know about my super duper secret or not?” Prompto whined, pouting.

“Of course I do!”

“Then don’t be smart for a second and let me tell you!” It’s only His Highness who could practically order _not_ to keep an eye on their surroundings or lower their guard. But after rolling his eyes, Loqi leaned in close when the other lowered his voice to that of an actual whisper, “I’m going to Lucis next week!”

He pulled back, shouting, “What?!”

“ _I know!”_ Having taken Loqi’s surprise as shared excitement, Prompto squealed. “Isn’t it exciting? I get to go out with Pa and see something that isn’t this boring old palace!”

“No, no, this is bad!” Loqi hissed, effectively cutting off the prince’s rambling.

“Bad? What do you mean bad?”

“Don’t you know? Lucis is a terrible place, full of jackasses who don’t give a fig about _your_ people. You shouldn’t be excited; you should be afraid. Did you listen to the program at all or do you princes have a different one?”

He remembered sitting through concentration camps along with others, listening to commanders speaking of curfews and obedience, of those who will comply to Gralean rules shall be rewarded with a medal of honor, the highest feat for any outstanding Imperial citizen.

  
(He remembered his mother receiving such accolades in place of his father, who hadn’t returned from the war with the Lucians; then another when he himself had been sent to this camp to fight under the name of the Empire.)

He remembered the direct threats and punishments the commanders listed whenever one so much disobeys a single law mandated by the Empire.

(He remembered that when he was still a small naïve child who didn’t know how to properly dismantle a firearm, the echoing rings of gunshot, followed by a blood-curling scream, late at night would keep him awake for all night. It’s only after two months did he grow used to hearing the same sounds again and again, regardless of the time. He only knew it was after curfew hours did those shots pierce through the silence.)

“We Imperials uphold order and glory— values of which our enemies, the Lucians, severely lacked,” claimed a hardened general. “Under their Gods-given ability, they are but savages who slaughtered your families with no sympathies. We fight to protect ourselves from this threat, to one day conquer their lands and avenge those whom we have lost.”

Day by day, he listened to their words and only theirs, because they do not take their opposers kindly. There were many instances when he’d seen strangers and friends alike spoke out of place, never to be seen again and written as missing. But he understood: order and obedience are absolute if they want to prove themselves as outstanding citizens— if they want to win the war.

But Prompto looked at him as if he’d grown a second head, a touch of fear glistening in his clueless eyes. “What are you talking about? What programs?”

He stared at the prince. “Don’t you have your tutors teaching you these things? What do you know about Lucis?”

“They’re enemies of the Empire,” Prompto slowly answered.

Good. At least he’s aware of _something_. “Yeah, and they’re sending off their magical soldiers out to kill _our_ people. They don’t have any problems killing one of our own, and they’ll definitely do the same to you if you’re not careful enough.”

Fear did not suit royalty, Loqi learned. It’s an emotion that scarcely crossed an Emperor’s noble features; only the weak carried this mask. He still wore it sometimes, when the tasks were too tedious and the rest of the child soldiers went missing whenever they failed to meet the conditions. But someday, he’ll let go of it soon— stop clinging to his weaknesses and set his focus only for the glory of the Empire. Prompto, too, shall learn of this sooner or later.

“Then, what do I do then?” Prompto asked with a weak voice. It didn’t take a trained eye to notice how his hands trembled.

Nervousness, fear— Loqi hated being the cause of these, but the prince was his friend— an unexpected albeit welcomed turn of events. To see him gone and tainted with his own blood, like the bodies he sometimes stumbled upon whenever he cleaned the muck around Sector 7, would mean failing his duty as a good Imperial citizen.

“All I’m asking you to do is to keep your guard up,” Loqi advised. “Even if you’ll be accompanied by someone, you need to be alert.”

Snipers in the shadows, poisoned wine, needles in fine pastries— the possibilities were endless. He knew because of the programs, and the programs never lie.

The sigh that left the prince was a heavy one. “It’s not going to be fun there, is it?”

“It’s just dangerous,” Loqi answered instead.

“Have you been there?”

“No, but if I did, I wouldn’t be sleeping.” The soldier said.

Prompto fiddled his thumbs, head bowed. “Because of assassins?”

“Yeah.” The silence was unnerving. “And also because it’s called Insomnia. Like you know, the sleep deprivation?”

“Oh yeah. Weird how they call a city like that.” Just like that, the mood was gone. Loqi hoped that his warnings hadn’t disappeared into thin air as well. “Do you think they’re just describing themselves instead of thinking of an actual name?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Loqi snickered. “Whatever’s going on over there, I doubt it’s going to be as quiet as us.”

Prompto furrowed his brows in thought. “We’re not that quiet though.”

Right, the gunshots at night. He’d forgotten about those. Then again, it’s easy to forget something that was as normal as breathing. “Yeah, you’re right.”

────────────────────────────────────

The incense’s woody scent wafted through the air. Just a faint reminder of his little prayer to the goddess Stella had told him about. “Stella?”

The blonde woman stopped just before her hand reached the intricate golden doorknob. “Yes, Your Highness?”

“May I ask you something?”

“Anything.” Even in the darkness, he could see her smile—ethereal as the aura that shrouded her. He knew she was different than the MT units and the others, just like Papa. But his aura was dark and maybe sinister whereas hers was as gentle as a dew drop forming on the petals of a white magnolias during misty days.

If that made any sense. Papa made words look so easy to say and weave together.

“Have you been to Lucis?”

Three heartbeats— the time it took before she spoke again. “I haven’t.”

“Oh…”

“What’s wrong?” She turned away from the door to face him fully. Tucked in only the finest fabrics and cushions reserved for the royal family, he was all but ready to run towards sleep’s embrace and perhaps talk with the Voice. “Is there something on His Highness’ mind?”

Should he talk about it? Maybe Stella could answer anything Loqi couldn’t. She always seem to know something about anything and everything under the weather like Papa but with less extravaganza and puzzles to decipher. Yes, maybe he should. “Do you know what Lucis is like?”

“I know that Lucis is a kingdom of abundant life— with meadows as vast as Niflheim’s but with creatures that you don’t see in our mountains. The ones you are fond of—chocobos, most of them are there.” She answered, a twitch of a smile forming when the prince stood a little straighter at the mention of his beloved creatures. “Some say that it is also the land where the great Solheim once stood. Much of their fragments lies there, more ancient ruins than technology, or so I’ve heard.”

“What about Insomnia?”

“A city that never sleeps but so bustling with life—a polar opposite of Gralea.” She sighed. “I heard it’s beautiful at night.”

That was surprising. But then coming from a city that’s named after a mental problem, it shouldn’t have shocked Prompto that much. “Really?”

“When the sun rests and the moon is high, the city opens its light and mirrors the night sky above.”

“They look like stars at night?” He clarified in disbelief, earning a soft chuckle from his chamberlain.

“Yes, they do. But I’ll tell you more on the next day. You should be sleeping, you know?”

Oh, right. He forgot about the time. He’d been so engrossed with her answers that contradicted Loqi’s. “Goodnight, Stella.”

“Sweet dreams, Your Highness.”

That night, when the lady’s voice murmured promises and lullabies, he briefly imagined what the Lucian kingdom would be like: its people cruel as Loqi dreaded, but its city brilliant and lively unlike Gralea. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm lowkey tired  
> college please let me do at least one section per day  
> actually scratch that 100 words per day is already a blessing. At this rate, I'll just do drabble style and go ballistic over there  
> Title is from Billie Eilish's _ilomilo_


End file.
